Divided We Fall
by Ross7
Summary: Somebody is out to get our guys. Concerned about The ATeam's future, its members find themselves crashing headlong into its past.
1. Chapter 1

"Divided We Fall"

"**Divided We Fall"**

By Rosanne Emily Esbrook-Iho (Ross7)

Author's note: This "A-Team" fanfic was first written, in script form, back in January of 1984. Since script format is not accepted here, 'Scenes' are being re-labeled as 'Chapters'. ;) New chapters will be posted as they are transcribed from 'present tense script format' to 'past tense story format'. I hope you all have as much fun reading this, as I had writing it. ;)

Disclaimer: The A-Team characters don't belong to me. They have borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.

**Chapter One**

Bright sunlight filtered through a flimsy curtain in the window of a small, ground floor apartment in east LA. It danced about the tiny abode and cast its warming rays upon the cheek of a silver-gray-haired gentleman, lying, motionless, on a sofa bed in the living room. The man's heavily blanketed body jerked, as someone began banging loudly—and incessantly—upon his door. His blue eyes snapped open, and then shut, in painful protest to the sudden onslaught of the sun's brilliant glare. The disturbed gentleman let out an irritated groan and rubbed a hand over his grimacing, unshaven face. "Knock off the knocking already!" he pleaded.

But, it continued and he was forced to rise.

The disrupted sleeper sat there on the edge of his sofa bed for a few moments, trying to shake the cobwebs from his hot, dizzy head and massage the painful throbbing from above his squinting left eye. He didn't succeed at doing either. So, he gave up and drew a deep, resigned breath into a big, sleepy yawn. The yawner's blue eyes snapped open and then shut again, as he doubled up in a fit of violent—and apparently painful—coughing. The man snatched a small medicine bottle from the lamp stand beside his sofa bed and quickly downed several long swallows of its red, syrupy contents.

The coughing gradually subsided.

The loud knocking did not, however.

So, the apartment's occupant pulled a blanket about his shivering shoulders, got stiffly—and unsteadily—to his bare feet and then went grumbling and stumbling over to confront the annoying 'knocker'. He leaned against a doorpost for support, cleared his throat and irritatededly inquired, "Who is it?"

"It's me!" a familiar voice came back. "Amy! Hannibal, are you all right?"

Hannibal's still-squinting eyes widened in surprise. "Amy?" He slid the chain off, opened the deadbolt, twisted the lock and pulled the heavy portal open, to glare accusingly at the girl. "I thought we had this 'understanding' that we never _ever_ meet at each other's—"

"—Don't worry. I made sure I wasn't followed," Amy assured her upset host and slipped quickly inside, before Hannibal had the chance to close the door on her. "Besides," she continued, as the portal was slammed shut, "I didn't want to have to come here. But, I couldn't reach you on the phone. And, I just had to reach you. You see, Murdock called me last night and made me _promise_ to check up on you for him." The girl gave the gentleman's usually impeccably groomed—now haggard and drawn looking—self a quick, concerned once over. "And now, I'm kind a' glad he did…" she hesitated. Their eyes met. She didn't like the way his looked. "Sheesh, Hannibal, you look absolutely awful!"

"Nice try," Hannibal told her, with a sarcastic smile. "But, you're not going to flatter your way out of this." His eyes narrowed and his frown returned. "You're a member of the team. You know the rules!"

'The rules.' Amy sighed aloud and groaned mentally. When it came to his precious rules, Hannibal never bent. No excuse was ever quite good enough to justify breaking the rules. And, deep down, the girl knew he was right. After all, strict adherence to these rules of his is what had kept him, and the rest of his team, from going to prison all these years. Still, her excuse came awfully close. 'The best defense is a good offense,' she reminded herself, and quickly assumed her best offensive stance. "Former member," she corrected. "And, rules are made to be broken. Promises aren't! At least, mine aren't. I don't make them, or take them, lightly. And, I don't use flattery either. When I tell someone they look awful, I mean they look awful!"

Hannibal's throbbing head felt hotter and dizzier than ever. He was in no mood for a major confrontation concerning the rules. He decided to let discretion be the better part of valor and just let the whole thing slide…for now. "Yeah? Well, I'd probably look a lot less awful by now, if certain people would stop disturbing me, so I could get some rest."

The room started spinning on him.

Amy reached out to steady the swaying, blanketed figure standing before her.

But, he brushed her hands away.

'Better sit down before you fall down,' Hannibal told himself, as the room began rotating more rapidly.

He beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the nearest seat. "You see, Murdock called _me_ last night, too," he continued, and plopped down on the edge of his sofa bed. The room kept right on spinning however, and he had to close his eyes to keep from getting sick. "Every half—" he winced and lowered his voice, "—hour!"

A look of dawning understanding and then disapproval came over Amy and she stomped over to glare accusingly down at him. "You took your phone off the hook, didn't you!"

He cracked an eye open, saw her frowning down at _him_, this time, and quickly closed it again. "Isn't that what one does, when one doesn't wish to be disturbed?" Suddenly, both eyes snapped back open, and he stared up at her in confusion. "Don't you have a plane to catch?"

Amy ignored him and started tracing the phone cord. She followed the slender black snake from its wall jack…across the carpeting…along the foot of the bed…and right up to a pile of sofa cushions in the center of the room. She dug the whining instrument out and returned it to the lamp stand. Next, she nestled the handset back into its cradle. The phone's immediate ringing startled her.

Hannibal groaned and fell back onto his bed, to bury his head beneath his pillow.

The phone continued to ring.

Amy continued to frown. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

"No!" came back Hannibal's muffled reply. "But, if you want to talk to 'Old Mother Murdock', be my guest." He raised the pillow a tad. "And, see if you can get him to _promise_ to stop disturbing me, while you're at it…quietly," he added and allowed the pillow to drop.

The flustered female exhaled an exasperated gasp and quickly answered the call. "Hello?…Yeah…Yes, he's here. But I'm not sure he's all here…Well, right now, he's buried under a mountain of blankets, trying to suffocate himself with his pillow."

Hannibal lifted the pillow and squinted skeptically up at the 'informer'.

Amy glared gloomily back at him. "Huh?…Uh, no. But he was a little while ago. And, he's got some kind of cough syrup by his bed…I'll say! Like death warmed over!"

Hannibal's already squinting eyes began narrowing even further, into annoyed slits.

The woman covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "He wants to know if you have a fever, chills and a bad headache."

Hannibal propped himself up on his elbows. "What I have is a bad cold. And, if the two of you don't let me get some rest, I'm gonna have it forever!" The room began to rotate again. He dropped back down onto the bed and then lay there shivering and squinting and rubbing his throbbing temples.

Amy felt sweat trickling down her own temples and realized it had to be close to ninety degrees in the stuffy, solar-heated apartment. And yet, Hannibal's blanket-bundled body seemed to be shaking. Her frown deepened. "Uh, affirmative on the fever, chills and headache," she reported into the uncovered mouthpiece. The little lady lowered the phone. "He says to take a deep breath."

"Tell him I said to take a flying leap!"

"Do you have any idea how worried he is about you? He hasn't slept in over two days!"

"I don't think either of you realize that—thanks to him—neither have I!"

There was an awkward silence.

"Look, Amy…" Hannibal began again, in a sudden change of tone and tactics, "I appreciate your concern—and his. But I honestly don't understand why the two of you are so worried. I'm not worried. However, if it will make the two of you feel any better, if I don't feel any better by tomorrow, I _promise_ I'll see a doctor. Okay?" He turned his head to witness the woman's reaction to his proposal.

Amy hadn't covered the mouthpiece, this time. So, Murdock heard everything that was said. Hannibal's absent friend gave the girl an earful.

"No good, Hannibal!" Amy parroted. "You have to see a doctor today! So he can get you started on antibiotics right away!"

Hannibal raised his head and used the opportunity to shake it, in reply. But the room kept right on revolving. "The only known cure for the common cold is to just let it run its course."

"You may have had just a common cold at first," Amy continued to quote their missing team member. "But that was before you spent the night lying in that cold, damp alley…and before you had that little wrestling match with those two Sumos in Clemsen's pool…and before—"

"—All right! All right!" Hannibal surrendered. "I'll see a doctor today…if I can get an appointment," he added, under his breath.

"You have an appointment," Amy informed him. "To see a Dr. Spengotti…at the Free Clinic…over on Yantze Street…at 3:50."

Hannibal stiffened and sat bolt upright this time. "If he thinks I'm going into a VD clinic for my cold, he really _**is**_ crazy!"

The little lady listened again and then stood there, looking highly amused. "Penicillin is penicillin. And, while those little spores may be cute as the dickens, they ain't all that bright. For a certainty, they would never be able to distinguish the subtle differences in the venereal and pneumonal strains of bacterium. Why, heck! Those poor dumb critters can't even pronounce big words like that—"

"—All right! All right!" Hannibal hoisted the white flag of surrender again. His already slumped shoulders slumped even more. "The Free Clinic on Yantze at 3:50."

Amy's smile turned into an outright grin. "Right!…I'll keep you posted…Right…Bye, Murdock." She replaced the phone and picked a pile of clothes up off the carpeted floor. "He says to shake a leg. It's gonna take yah twenty minutes to shower and shave, ten minutes to get dressed and another fifteen minutes to fight through traffic. And, if you ain't there on time, Dr. Spengotti's gonna give your appointment to someone else," she finished her final message relay and dropped the clothing in his lap.

"Yeah," Hannibal grumbled beneath his breath. "To someone with VD."

"What?" Amy inquired. "I didn't quite catch that…"

"I said, you must remind me to send the two of you a card," he replied—er, lied, his voice oozing with sarcasm. "Next Mothers_'_ Day!" His gaze shifted from the garments in his lap to the still-grinning girl. "Mommy? Will you please fetch me my blue sweater and my gray vest jacket?"

Amy's grin disappeared, and so did she…in the direction of the closet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The brown, hazy California sky was cloudless. A late afternoon sun shone hot and bright on a busy, bustling street in West LA. Buildings cast long, cool shadows onto the pedestrians and the pavement they were pounding. With the air temperature hovering in the upper 80s, someone wearing both a sweater and a vest jacket was bound to stick out in the otherwise lightly clad crowd.

Amy helped the silver-gray haired guy in the powder blue turtleneck and gray vest jacket back into her parked car.

The shower and shave and fresh clothes and air had done wonders for Hannibal's appearance. But then, appearances could be deceiving.

"I thought you said they don't ask questions," Hannibal was saying. "Talk about embarrassing! Ahh!" he cried out, as his recently punctured posterior came into contact with the front passenger's seat. All he needed was another aggravation! "You know, the two of you can be a real pain in the—"

"—Goo-ood!" Amy interrupted his sarcastic comment with one of her own. "You're feeling better already. I can tell." She closed the car door on him, halting any further complaining…for the moment.

Instead of a complaint, a warm smile greeted the girl as she slid into the bucket seat beside Hannibal.

"In case I forget later…Thanks for taking the time to come and check up on me. I know how busy you've been since you got back to the States. And, I also know that you have a plane to catch."

Amy matched his warm smile with one of her own. "You're welcome. And, don't worry about my plane. I can always catch a later flight."

There was a lull in the conversation, as she started the car up and pulled out into the street.

Hannibal pulled a cigar from the front pocket of his vest jacket and then settled down into his bucket seat. "There's no reason for you to have to miss your plane. If you're that pressed for time, I can take a cab."

The girl gave her passenger a quick glance and saw him struggling with the cellophane wrapper on his cigar. "Are you kidding? We can't have you passing out on a complete stranger. And, besides—"

"—I know," he interrupted. "You _promised_ Murdock, right?"

His pretty chauffeur just kept right on driving, and smiling.

Hannibal finally got the wrapper off of his cigar and sat there, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. He wasn't in the mood for a smoke. And, he wasn't fooled by Amy's smile, either. "So…What did the voodoo VD doctor have to say?"

The man's sudden question confused the heck out of Amy. At least, she pretended it did. She gave the guy another quick glance, which said as much. "That's supposed to be my question, isn't it? I mean, you're the one who saw the doctor."

"That's right," the patient replied. "I did see the doctor…and you…talking…the whole time his nurse was using my backside for a dart board. And, you were looking very worried…even more worried than you were when we first got there—and that was worried enough for the both of us."

The woman's shoulders sagged in defeat. She never could hide anything from Hannibal. And, his being sick hadn't changed that frustrating fact…darn! She traded her phony façade for sarcasm again. "Worried? Me? Well-ll-ll, maybe I was, just a little at first. But, after he explained things to me, and told me how deathly ill you are and how he feels you should be hospitalized immediately—all my worries just went right out the window!"

Hannibal sank even deeper into his bucket seat. "Whatever happened to patient/doctor confidentiality?"

Amy was annoyed that _that_ seemed to be the only comment her bitter sarcasm had provoked. "Did you hear me, Hannibal? We're not talking worry here anymore! We're talking full-scale anxiety attack!"

"That is precisely why I asked him not to tell you anything. I just knew you were going to overreact."

"Oh really?" Amy brought her car to a complete stop in the middle of the block and then sat there, fuming at her impossible passenger. "Well, he only told me those things because, when he told them to you, he got no reaction at all!"

"That's not true!" Hannibal countered, remaining incredibly calm. "I had a very strong reaction. I told him I wanted a second opinion." His glazed eyes got just a glint of amusement in them. "And, then, you should've seen his reaction."

The girl exhaled another exasperated gasp. "Hannibal! This is serious! If you don't check yourself into a hospital right away…" she hesitated and sat there flexing and unflexing her long, slender fingers on the steering wheel, "you could…die."

"What does he know? He's just a kid! If I had a grandson, he'd be older than him!" Hannibal completed his sentence and then sat there, staring down at his still unlit cigar. The familiar object seemed, suddenly, to be going in and out of focus.

Amy jerked, startled by the loud blaring of a car horn. She switched her foot from the brake back to the accelerator. "It isn't just what that doctor said," she confessed. "It's something Murdock said…and the way he sounded when he said it. Nobody knows you better than Murdock…"

Hannibal struggled to blink his blurring vision back into focus. Amy's voice kept getting softer and softer until it finally got so muffled he could no longer make out what she was saying. His muscles began to relax, involuntarily. Wave after wave of drowsiness came crashing over his already completely exhausted body. The kid doctor may have been off on his diagnosis, but he appeared to be right on about the side effects from his medication.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Amy's distant voice calling his name. Amy. There was something he wanted to ask her. But now, he couldn't seem to recall what his question was…except that…it had something to do with Murdock.

Good old Murdock! Amy was right. No one in the world knew him better than 'Howlin' Mad' Murdock. Yes, sir! The two of them went back a ways…a long, long ways. All the way back to the 'clothesline' at the 'Hanoi Hilton'.

Hannibal's drugged mind wandered back…to a warm, rainy afternoon a dozen some odd years ago. He felt the cigar slip from his fingers. His steadily drooping eyelids finally closed, completely.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The 'Hanoi Hilton' was a large POW camp located on the outskirts of the North Vietnamese capital.

In the very heart of the camp, was a small outdoor compound. The little yard was bordered, on all four sides, by low, drab, windowless buildings, which interconnected.

Two twelve foot posts stood in the center of the clearing. A long, horizontal pole was secured to the tops of these posts.

A solitary prisoner hung from the pole, attached to the timber by the metal bracelets, which were secured to his wrists. The man's badly faded and worn, sopping wet camouflage uniform bore no nametags or other insignia.

It was mid-afternoon and a warm, steady drizzle was falling.

Thoroughly drenched, and barely recognizable beneath a rugged growth of beard and ragged locks of silver-gray hair, were the emaciated remains of one United States Army Special Forces commando, Lieutenant Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith. The fettered and forlorn figure's eyes were closed. His face was impassive. He appeared to be either dead…or sleeping.

There was a loud 'bang'.

As the door to one of the barracks went flying open, so did the prisoner's eyes. He blinked them into focus and squinted out into the rain. Hannibal watched as four North Vietnamese soldier-guards dragged another American POW out of the 'lounge', through the ankle-deep mud of the 'polo grounds' and up to his hang-out.

Two of the guards stooped to pull a rickety, waterlogged wooden ladder up out of the ooze.

Their prisoner, a young army Captain, wearing a slight growth of beard and a bulky flight jacket, pulled his shackled wrists free and tried to make a run for it. A quick, well-placed kick tripped him up, however, and he went flying—face first—into the muck.

His guards cracked up.

Hannibal winced.

The Captain pulled his puss up out of the mud and spit—twice. "Go ahead and laugh, yah sleazy slimeballs! Cuz you wouldn't be laughing without those guns! I could beat all four of you Bozos—with both hands tied behind my back!"

The Colonel's squinting eyes widened and his brows shot up.

The North Vietnamese soldiers remained unimpressed and their rifles remained trained on the mouthy American's chest.

The Captain was jerked roughly to his feet and then prodded over to the ladder, which had been propped up against the pole that Hannibal was hanging from.

One of the guards pulled a key out. He freed the prisoner's right wrist and then motioned for the captive to start climbing.

The Captain started laughing, instead. "If you think I'm gonna just climb up there and let you string me up like some trophy elk," he spat again and wiped his muddied face with the sleeves of his flight jacket, "then you guys got brown rice for brains!"

The Colonel's brows arched even higher.

The 'key' guard gave the American prisoner an impatient, menacing glare and motioned, again, for him to start climbing.

"Eat a rock!" the Captain smartly replied and continued to just stand there, glaring defiantly back at his captors.

Hannibal winced again and then closed his eyes, to block out the unsavory sight of the cocky kid's now inevitable beating. He couldn't block out the sounds of it however, and he jerked each time a boot or rifle butt made contact with the younger man's bones.

There were a few involuntary gasps and groans, closely followed by the sound of wood creaking and chains jingling.

The Colonel cautiously re-opened his peepers.

The Captain had been carried up the ladder.

The rain had washed the remaining mud from the young man's face and Hannibal noted that his blatant look of defiance had been replaced by one of profound pain.

The chain dangling from their prisoner's left wrist was draped over the pole and the shackle was reattached to his right wrist. The guards climbed quickly down and the ladder was jerked out from under the hurting young man's mud-covered boots.

The ladder landed with a loud 'splat'.

A muffled cry escaped from the young prisoner, as his manacled wrists were forced to bear the full weight of his badly bruised body. The kid stifled a few more gasps and groans and then turned in the direction of his disappearing tormentors. "Yous ain't so tough!" he taunted, a tone of defiance creeping back into his still somewhat shaky voice. "Yah big pack a' pukes!"

Their only acknowledgment was the loud banging of the heavy wooden door, as it slammed shut behind them.

The two American POWs were left hanging there in the steady rain, which continued to pour down upon the open and unprotected yard.

Hannibal blinked the water droplets from his lashes and blew them from his cracked and blistered lips. "Speaking of brown rice for brains…"

The kid's hanging head snapped back around, to face him.

The Colonel cleared his throat and continued. "Short of getting yourself shot, what were you hoping to accomplish down there?"

It was obvious by the look on his face that the cocky kid didn't know quite what to make of his companion, or his question.

"What's the matter, son?" Hannibal wondered, as the Captain refused to supply him with an answer. "No habla inglais?"

His fellow prisoner remained silent, and seemed greatly distracted by the intense discomfort of the sharp metal bands that were digging into his wrists.

"Oh…I get it," the Colonel teased. "You only talk to sleazy slimeballs and pukes. Right?"

The Captain continued to ignore him, but appeared to be having a harder time of it.

"I was once called a disgusting dredge of sewer sludge," Hannibal volunteered. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

Silence.

"Sorry. But, that's the absolute worst I can do for you."

More silence.

"Oh, well…" Hannibal's eyes and voice filled with a genuine sadness. "I was hoping to enjoy a good, stimulating conversation—with someone other than myself—for a change. But I guess if it is not to be…then it is not to be."

The younger man couldn't take the pitiful, pouting look on the face of his soft-spoken companion any longer. He gasped, in both misery and surrender. "What would be so awful about getting shot?" he demanded, through teeth gritted in pain. "I could take getting shot! I ain't gonna be able to take this!"

His fellow prisoner looked positively delighted. "That's very commendable of you, Captain. After all, it is the duty of every prisoner to try to escape. There are other avenues you might want to try first, though. I mean, before you choose that route. Getting yourself shot isn't called the last resort for nothing, you know."

"The batteries go dead in your hearing aid, old man?" the Captain snapped back. "I sai-aid, I ain't gonna be able to take this! And_, I ain't gonna be able to take this_!" The young man gasped again, as the excruciating pain in his wrists, arms and shoulders became totally unbearable.

The old man's squinting eyes sparkled with amusement. "You're being just a tad bit hasty in your judgment. Aren't you, sonny? You haven't been here long enough to realize it yet, but hanging out on the 'clothesline' is, perhaps, the most pleasant pastime in this whole stinking place. And," Hannibal grasped the chain binding his wrists with both hands and started pulling his feet up, "if you'll join me topside," he lifted his legs and locked them around the pole that supported the both of them, "I'll prove it to you."

Once again, the cocky kid was silent, as, once again, he wasn't quite sure what to make of his bedraggled companion or his broad, confident, upside-down grin. Never the less, he took the old man up on his invitation and joined him...topside.

Somehow, the two of them managed to get right side up again. The pair sat there astride the slippery timber, to which their shackled wrists remained chained, hanging on for dear life, and struggling to catch their breath.

The Captain carefully straightened up and exhaled an audible sigh of relief. He made sure he got his balance before releasing his grip on the beam, to rub his raw, aching wrists.

Hannibal, who had just used up what little strength remained in him, grimaced and gritted his teeth as every muscle and tendon in the entire upper half of his body began screaming in painful protest to their recent abuse. The extreme agony gradually subsided to a dull aching. Still, he continued to hunker there, trying to work some of the stiffness out of his severely stretched and super-strained shoulder joints.

The captured pilot studied his doubled-up companion carefully, and, for the first time, noticed just how deplorable the old guy's condition really was. "How long have you been hanging here?" he wondered, curious as to the amount of time it took to get a person's condition to deteriorate to that of his fellow prisoner's current state.

"Too long," Hannibal muttered. Then he forced himself to straighten up. "Welcome to the Hanoi Hilton, Captain...?"

"...Murdock," the young man rather reluctantly replied and equally as reluctantly reached out to shake the hand his companion had proffered. He couldn't help but notice the ghastly scars which encircled the old man's wrists. He was surprised to find the old guy's handshake to be every bit as confident as his grin. Why, there was even a discernible glint of confidence in his companion's cool, squinting, steely-blue eyes. "82nd Airborne Division, Flyin' Tigers Chopper Squadron outta Da Nang," he added and attempted to pull his hand back, but it remained locked in the old man's vice-like grip.

Hannibal continued to eye the kid up with an unnerving stare. "Colonel Smith," he calmly announced and felt the hand in his go completely limp. "5th Special Forces Group—Pleiku."

Captain Murdock got a kind a' queasy look on his face and swallowed hard. "_Colonel_ Smith?"

Hannibal gave him a confident nod and finally released his grip.

Chains jingled as the Captain's whole arm dropped numbly to his side. "Sir, I'm—I apologize for being so disrespectful earlier, sir. But I didn't—"

"—At ease, Captain!" the Colonel ordered. "I understand that you were under duress."

The young pilot relaxed—somewhat. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Hannibal winced. "Go easy on that 'sir' stuff, will you. There's no room for all that 'rank hath its privileges' rigmarole around here. This is solitary confinement. You sort of have to get used to not having anybody else to talk to…or pull rank on. You got that, Captain?"

The kid relaxed a bit more and sat there, giving this crazy Colonel a strange stare. "Yes."

"Yes what?" his senior officer shrewdly inquired.

"Yes. I got that," Captain Murdock replied, equally shrewdly.

The crazy Colonel appeared pleased. "Splendid! And, now that that's out of the way…Allow me to give you the fifty-cent tour. This is the 'clothesline'," he explained, tapping the soggy timber beneath them. "Actually, it's more of a cross between a jungle gym, a shower and a Laundromat because it provides an opportunity for daily calisthenics…and solves the problem of personal hygiene…while cleaning and softening your clothes."

The kid ignored the Colonel's rather imaginative description of their torture rack and glanced nervously around. "What happens if they catch us sittin' up here?"

"As long as no one oils the hinges on those doors over there, we'll never have to find that out. That's the 'main lobby'," Hannibal continued, motioning to the next point of interest on his fifty-cent tour. "So called because all new guests have to check in there when they first arrive. It's sort of a primitive prisoner processing center…as I'm sure you have already discovered."

The Captain continued to ignore his tour guide. "How long have you been hanging here, Colonel?" he inquired again, sounding more curious than ever.

"Long enough," the Colonel came back, sounding more than a bit exasperated. "Look, Captain, I don't know how long they're going to let us hang out here together. You see, I'm supposed to be in total solitary confinement. So, I'm sure it's just a matter of time before someone realizes they've screwed up, and we're forced to part company. And, what I have to tell you is very important. So, please, pay close attention. There's going to be a test later on…if we have time for one, that is," he added under his breath and pointed to yet another building. "That's the 'manager's office'—the Commanding Officer's quarters. General Sunh Chin Chou, if you haven't already had the _dis_pleasure. That building over there houses the 'executive suites', where officers and generally uncooperative prisoners—like yourself—are kept in solitary.

That building, that they just dragged you out of, is the hotel's 'lounge'. I, uh, believe you've already seen—firsthand—what goes on in there…" The Colonel glanced in the tourist's direction and saw the Captain clutching his bruised ribcage. "I thought so. There are five separate cellblocks in this camp—labeled A through E. Each block is in a complex—like this one. The layout of the five complexes resembles the number five dot design on a dice.

The 'executive suites' over there are A-block. A-block's complex is in the center of the camp. The main gate is situated 200 yards from the front door of the 'manager's office' over there.

There are two guards at the main gate at all times. There are three guards assigned to each of these buildings—two inside and one outside. Except for the 'manager's office' which has only one outside guard. And, there is one guard assigned to this compound.

Now, when it rains, all the outside guards move inside, with the inside guards. When it's not raining, the outside guards stay outside until after dark. Then they move inside with the inside guards. The same holds true for the guards in the other complexes.

That means that, on some dark and rainy night—like tonight—a person could knock one of the ends of this pole off the top of one of these posts, and then slide his chains off. Once he was free of the pole, he could take that ladder down there, and set it up against the roof of the 'manager's office'. Then he could climb up there and wait for the General's girlfriend to arrive in her car from the city—which she does every night, rain or shine.

He could then slip quietly down, overpower the girl's chauffeur and steal his clothes and her car. Then he could quietly start the thing up and drive the 200 yards to the main gate, where he could give the guards some excuse about the General's lady friend having to leave early.

Once he was outside the gates, he could hang a left and drive to where a railroad track crosses the road—about two miles from the camp. Then, he could let half of the air out of the car's tires and hang another left, driving the vehicle up onto the rails. He could then proceed down the track, until he came to a large North Vietnamese airfield.

Once he got to the airfield, he could swap the car for a set of wings, a chopper, preferably. Once he got the chopper airborne, he could follow the rails in the same direction he's been traveling on them, until he comes to where the tracks cross a small river. He could take a right at the river and follow it into Laos. Then, he could just keep heading south, until he reaches Cambodia…or his fuel runs out…whichever comes first.

Once he was safely down in Cambodia, he could just head out on foot until he found a friendly place to cross the border back into 'Nam…the further south, the better. Any questions?"

The Captain, who'd been sitting there, wearing the most incredulous look on his face looked even more incredulous—and like he wasn't sure where to begin. At long last, he found his voice. "You ain't serious?"

Colonel Smith seemed somewhat disappointed by the question. "Believe me, Captain. I've been over every detail of this plan with the finest toothed comb imaginable, and there is absolutely no reason why a person couldn't pull it off. Any more questions?"

The kid remained incredulous, but felt obligated to come up with a question, and so he did. "Yeah. Why land in Cambodia?"

Again, the Colonel seemed disappointed. "How far into South Vietnamese air space do you think you'd get flying a Soviet-built chopper? The Master say: _Better to land in Cambodia…than in flames_," he finished, with an oriental accent.

The Captain considered all that had been said over for a while. Then he sat there, looking slightly puzzled. "So, if it's such a perfect plan…then, why are you still here?"

Hannibal was disappointed for a third time. But, it wasn't because the Captain's question wasn't a good one. On the contrary, it was too good. The Colonel's cool, confident demeanor crumbled and his tired, squinting eyes became filled with a look of utter defeat and unbearable sadness. He stared—trance-like—off into the distance and didn't so much as flutter an eyelash at the raindrops, which gently pelted his face and ran down his cheeks, like tears.

Captain Murdock was beginning to regret ever asking his last question. He gave the quiet Colonel a deeply concerned look and reached out to place a steadying hand on his scarred and shackled wrist. "Hey? You okay?"

Hannibal reluctantly snapped back to reality. "I'm…fine," he assured his fellow prisoner. But he didn't sound too convincing and the Captain didn't look too convinced. So, he continued. "I, uh, made one fatal error. I failed to take into consideration what effect prison food…or the lack there of, was going to have on my health." He stared down at the muddy ground twelve feet below them. "And, by the time my brain finished perfecting my plan, my body was too…weak…to pull it off." He glanced up and forced a sad smile. "This is what happens to you when you don't eat your vegetables," he added and motioned to his rather frail and fragile frame. "A classic case of too much brain…and not enough brawn."

The Captain gave his starved companion a sad, sympathetic look. Then he glanced down and saw that he was still holding on to the Colonel's wrist. The look on his face was replaced by one of embarrassment and chains jingled, as he quickly snatched his hand back. "So," he said, sounding distrustful again, "why tell me all a' this? You expectin' me to help you escape, or somethin'?"

The Colonel was forced to smile. "You've got it backwards, kid. I'm helping you to escape. You can leave tonight, if this rain holds up," he added and squinted up into the solid gray cloud cover overhead.

Murdock was feeling kind a' queasy and numb again and he eventually formed the reason for it into words. "What makes you think I can pull it off?"

"I don't think you can pull it off," Hannibal informed him, sounding incredibly calm and confident. "I know you can pull it off."

The Captain remained unconvinced. "But how can you know that? I mean, we only just met a few minutes ago."

"I knew it the first moment we met. You see, Captain, a man's eyes are the mirrors of his soul. And, when I looked into your mirrors, I saw that you have what it takes to pull it off."

"What do I have?"

"What it takes."

"Yes. But what—exactly—does it take?"

"Exactly what you have."

"That's crazy!"

"Well, actually, you don't have to be crazy to pull it off, but I can see where that might definitely be an asset, all right," the Colonel confessed with another big, broad, confident grin.

The Captain could find nothing to grin about. "You may know that I can pull it off. But, I ain't so sure."

"What do you mean? You're a chopper pilot, aren't you?"

Murdock managed a glum nod.

"Well, if you can operate a chopper, you can operate a car. Of course, it may take more than mere words to overpower the chauffeur. Sticks and stones may break his bones. But names will never hurt him. Especially when he doesn't understand a word of English."

"Well, I don't understand a word of Vietnamese."

"No problem. I'll give you a phrase and you can memorize it."

"What happens if they catch me?"

"Just stick to the plan and you'll never have to find that out."

"But, what if something goes wrong with your plan?"

Hannibal's eyes got that glint of confidence back in them and then began narrowing into no-nonsense slits. "Trust me. It won't."

"Humor me. Pretend something might."

The Colonel appeared thoughtfully amused. "In that case, they'd probably shoot you. Now, as I recall, that was a prospect you didn't seem to find too dreadfully awful…"

The Colonel's teasing paid off this time and his serious and somber companion was finally forced to smile…just the slightest of smiles.

Hannibal seemed pleased. "Now, about that test I promised you…"

The Captain opened his mouth to object.

"Please?" the Colonel pleaded. "Humor an old man. Pretend you're really into this escape business."

The kid tossed his head back and gasped in surrender.

"First, the guards. How many are there, and what are their placements?"

The slamming of a car door jolted Hannibal's thoughts.

And, as his medicated mind wandered back to the present, the images from his past dissolved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hannibal's heavy eyelids gradually lifted. A blurry, beige-colored screen, with an unidentifiable object in its upper left-hand corner, appeared. The screen moved into and out of focus for a while and, eventually, the object's identity became clear. It was a dome light. The beige-colored screen was an upholstered car ceiling. He was in a car…Amy's car. The back of his bucket seat had been lowered and his legs extended so that he was lying almost horizontally. A low moan escaped his lips as he slowly turned in the driver's direction.

Amy was sitting, statue-like, with her fingers frozen on the key in her ignition. Her gaze was also fixed…upon the body lying in the bucket seat beside her. She saw the guy gazing back at her and exhaled a pitiful moan of her own. "I'm so-o sorry, Hannibal. I've disturbed you again, haven't I."

Hannibal ignored her question. It was more of a statement of fact, anyway. He pulled an arm out from under the colorful afghan, which covered him up to his chest, and swiped a hand across his face. "Where…are we?"

"The Charter Oak Mall," Amy informed him and was relieved to see that Hannibal didn't seem to be so upset with her for waking him, this time. "I stopped to get your prescriptions filled and pick up some vitamins—and a few ingredients for my Grandmother's chicken soup recipe."

Her passenger appeared highly skeptical.

The girl shrugged. "It always seems to work for me, when I'm sick. Anyways, you have to eat something to keep your strength up."

"I don't need a 'recipe' for chicken soup. All I need is a can opener. Besides, you don't have time to play 'Julia Childs'. You have a plane to catch. Remember?"

"Not anymore. I canceled my reservation. I have certain priorities in my life and sick friends come before…"

Hannibal noticed that someone seemed to be playing with the volume knob on Amy's voice again. His limbs were also beginning to feel like lead weights again. And, his chest—there had to be four, big, invisible guys sitting on his chest.

"How are you feeling, now?"

The Colonel completely ignored Amy's barely audible question. It wasn't that he didn't want to answer her. It was just that he couldn't seem to get his mouth to open, so that the words could come out. The dome light started spinning like a top.

"Those hypos must have been pretty potent, because you went out like a—"

Hannibal's eyes closed and his right arm went limp. Then his head rolled to one side and he was perfectly still once more.

"—light," the girl finished. The pretty miss stared down at her passed out passenger, wearing a deep—and foreboding—frown. It was going to take a whole lot more than the miraculous, medicinal, healing properties of her grandmother's chicken soup to pull the Colonel through this 'bad cold' of his.

Perhaps she should take him to a hospital…one away from the city…someplace where there'd be less of a chance of him being recognized.

Amy didn't want to have to make that choice, or have to gamble with Hannibal's life.

If she stuck him in a hospital, he could end up in prison.

If she didn't, he could end up…dead.

The woman had to come up with something! She couldn't just drive him around in her car all night, while he lay there slowly dying!

"Oh-h-h, Hannibal…what am I going to do with you?"

Alas, the man with all the answers failed to answer her.

All of a sudden, the girl got an idea, which seemed to brighten her gloomy mood—considerably. "I think it's time we called on The A-Team!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Hannibal found himself back at the Hanoi Hilton.

The two soggy, sorry-looking pole straddlers were still chained to the clothesline, in the middle of the compound, in the very heart of the camp. They'd been sitting there, soaking up the rain, for over five hours.

It was still precipitating upon them. However, their steady shower had lightened up to just a fine mist. The sun had already set and the air temperature was falling—fast. The gloom of dusk was also rapidly descending upon them.

"—coo…eye…sun," Murdock was saying, being extra careful to annunciate each unfamiliar syllable.

The Colonel winced, as though the Captain's words were painful to his ears. They were!

"It's not coo-eye-sun," he corrected. "It's kwhy-soon. Kwaisunh."

The Captain gasped in complete exasperation and rubbed his sopping wet head with both of his cuffed hands. "I'm tellin' yah, Colonel, yah can't teach someone to speak fluent Vietnamese in five hours! Or, days or weeks or months, either!"

Hannibal was rubbing his head, too. He was massaging his throbbing forehead, just above his squinting left eye. "It's just one, simple sentence," he reminded his perturbed pupil. "It is also your passport outta here. You learn it, and you won't have to take getting shot. You won't have to take hanging here. You won't have to take any of this," he concluded, sounding rather wistful. "You'd have it down pat by now, if you could just deep six that western draw-awl of yours." He saw that his student remained upset with him and sensed that the young pilot was teetering on the brink of mutiny. "Okay. We'll call it quits…for now. The way the weather's going, it'll probably be clear and dry by the time she gets here tonight, anyway."

Captain Murdock seemed tremendously relieved. He looked—and felt—like a great weight had just been lifted from him.

One had.

Colonel Smith felt the way he sounded, drained and defeated. The five-and-a-half hours of grueling schooling had sapped his already rapidly waning strength completely dry.

"After tonight, the plan will be the same. Except that you'll have to get out of your cell in A-block and back to this compound. And, I don't foresee any problems there. I'm sure I can convince Lin Duk to arrange that for you."

Murdock felt that great weight settling back down on his shoulders and frowned. "Who's Lynduck?"

"A friend," the Colonel replied and quickly changed the subject. "Where about, in Wyoming, are you from?"

His companion's frowning face filled with amazement. "How'd you know I was from Wyoming?"

"Oh-h-h, I dunno. Maybe by yore draw-awl, I reckon," his teacher teased, duplicating precisely the young pilot's speech pattern and accent.

The Captain looked even more amazed and not the least bit insulted. The Colonel didn't seem to be making fun of him, anyways. It was more like he was just showing off yet another one of his seemingly many talents. "Colonel Smith, my admiration for you just keeps growin' an' growin'," he confessed with a grin.

Hannibal received the kid's compliment with a grateful nod and then returned his grin. "So, where are you from?"

"Cody."

"Cody. Isn't that the town that was named after Buffalo Bill?"

The Captain's face filled with amazement again. "William Frederick Cody," he concurred with a tone of admiration in his voice—for both the Colonel and Buffalo Bill. "His museum, monument and ranch are just south of town."

"It must have been nice growing up in a place where you have the Spirit Mountain Caverns…the Shoshone Canyons…Yellowstone Park…and the Rocky Mountains—practically in your backyard."

His companion's jaw dropped. "How do you know so much about everything? Honestly, if I didn't know you were a Colonel in the USASF, I'd swear you were a college professor—or somethin' like that."

Hannibal's own jaw dropped, this time. His mouth immediately formed another grin and he started to laugh…a quiet, easy laughter that caused him to double up over their pole perch. He rested his head on his folded arms and just kept right on laughing.

The Colonel's mirthful mood was highly contagious and Murdock found himself getting caught up in it. The man was obviously enjoying some private little joke--immensely. "What?" the kid from Cody wondered with a grin. "Was is somethin' I said?"

The Captain's inquiry only served to renew Hannibal's chortling. "Uh-hum-m-m," he muttered. Then he squelched a few final snickers and slowly straightened up. He had finally regained enough of his composure to be able to speak. "Ahh…" he declared with a grin, "The Reader's Digest is right. Laughter really is the best medicine. I haven't felt this good in—" he stopped suddenly and his grin vanished.

"What was so funny?" Murdock wondered, in an attempt to recapture the merry mood.

It worked.

The Colonel's grin returned. "Up until eight months ago, I was teaching Political Science at MIT"

A look of complete confusion—closely followed by one of incredulity—came over the Captain's face. "Yah mean, you really are—were—a college professor?"

The ex-professor nodded.

"At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology?"

Hannibal managed another nod. "But, let's keep that our little secret. Okay?"

And, it was Murdock's turn to nod…numbly.

The Colonel continued to grin.

The Captain continued to be amazed. "No offense, Colonel, but weren't you a little old to be drafted?"

The old man grinned delightedly. "No offense taken. I'm used to it. They thought I was a little old to be enlisting, too. I guess I must just be a late bloomer."

The Captain about fell off of their pole perch—stunned by the late bloomer's latest statement. He could not believe his ears. "You enlisted?"

Another grin. Another nod.

Murdock could not believe his eyes, either. "You quit your job at MIT…to join the Green Berets?"

Hannibal was about to nod but then reconsidered. "Well, actually, I didn't quit. I was dismissed."

"Why did they dismiss you?"

"For actively participating in an unpopular political rally."

The questioner was beyond stunned. "You mean, you were fired for protesting against the war?"

"I didn't protest against anything. I merely stated a few, cold, hard political realities. You see, facts have a tendency to speak for themselves and these facts just happened to speak against the war."

"Colonel," Murdock began, when he'd finally got his voice back, "if your facts were so against this war…" the kid hesitated, finding it difficult to form his mind-boggling question into words.

Hannibal anticipated where the conversation was going and headed him off at the pass. "If you can't beat'em, join 'em," he exclaimed, including the unmistakable tone of finality in his rather wanting explanation.

Captain Murdock was tremendously disappointed. He would have liked to pursue the matter further, but, seeing how weary the old man now appeared to be, the kid obligingly stuck his unfinished and unsatisfactorily answered question on a back burner.

The Colonel shivered and then looked around. He was right—on both counts. It was no longer precipitating on them, in any form, and it was clearing. He could see a full moon rising up over the 'lounge'. He shivered again and leaned forward to fold his arms up tightly against his chest. The air temperature was still dropping like a rock and it was becoming chillier out by the second. He glanced up to see if the Captain was as cold as he was.

He was.

The kid from Cody was sitting there, clutching his crossed arms and feeling, not only chilled to the bone, but miserable, tired and famished, too…especially famished. "Man! I'm so hungry, I could eat Road Runner."

The Colonel shot him a confused, amused look.

"Road Runner's my horse," the cryptic Captain explained, and the two of them exchanged grins again. Murdock's amused look faded fast and he sat there, listening to the distinct 'screaking' sound of a rusty door hinge. "Get down!" he shouted in a whisper. Chains jingled as he started to slide off the pole.

"Relax!" the Colonel advised and chains jingled again, as he quickly latched onto the back of his skittish companion's bulky flight jacket. "It's only room service."

The Captain relaxed…a bit…and allowed himself to be pulled back up into his pole-sitting position. He saw the silhouette of a man emerge from the main lobby building.

The shadowy figure came 'splatting' up through the mud, stopped directly beneath them and then just stood there—silently—in the moonlight

The guy looked very Vietnamese and the Captain finally posed what he considered to be a good question. "You sure he's on our side?"

"Lin Duk Koo is on everyone's side. Now, shhhhh!"

"Poor naked wretches," their visitor began, with a strong Vietnamese accent—and just a smidgen of melodrama. "Where so e'er you are that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm. How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you from seasons such as these?"

Chains jingled as Hannibal began to applaud. "Bravo, Lin Duk! Excellent!" he added with a grin. "You've obviously been doing your homework."

Lin Duk's moonlit face looked positively radiant. He bowed gratefully and then beamed a big smile up at his critic. "Colonel Smith is good teacher. Lin Duk practice all afternoon on other prisoners. They think Colonel's selection is most appropriate."

"Yes," Hannibal had to agree. "It was a rather fitting choice, wasn't it."

Lin Duk placed a basket down and started picking their ladder up out of the mud.

"What was all that about?" Captain Murdock wondered.

"King Lear," the Colonel came back. "Act III, Scene IV."

The kid looked thoughtful and then disappointed, as it seemed to be the only explanation he was going to get. He resigned himself to watching Lin Duk wrestle with the heavy, slippery, waterlogged ladder.

At long last, Lin maneuvered the awkward object into place, setting it down on the pole between the two Americans.

The man then picked his basket back up and began climbing. "Lin Duk convince new guards to bring Captain to Colonel. Lin think Captain maybe make good company for Colonel. Colonel's spirits very low. Colonel need good company. 'It was a rather fitting choice, wasn't it,'" he tacked on, parroting the Colonel's comment perfectly.

He stopped on the wrung that put him at about their eye level and looked up to find both the 'good company' and the Colonel glaring angrily back at him. It was impossible to tell which of the two POWs was the most upset with him. He slouched down and took a guess. "Colonel is not pleased with my selection?"

Lin Duk's pitiful inquiry caused a great deal of the grumpiness to disappear from their glares. Still, both men's looks remained stern.

"I'm very pleased—overjoyed—with your selection. The Captain is very good company indeed, but what is going to happen to Lin Duk when General Chou finds out who's responsible for getting the new guards to disobey his orders?"

Lin Duk relaxed. "Not to worry. Lin convince General whole thing is big mistake. New guards not here when General give orders."

Hannibal's stern look remained affixed to his still frowning face and he gave Lin Duk a rather lengthy chewing out in his native tongue.

Lin Duk ignored the scolding and went about his business.

Which, as far as the Captain could tell, was seeing to it that the prisoners were fed and watered. Murdock was still debating whether or not he was ever gonna forgive Lin Duk for getting him chained to this torture rack, but then the man handed him some food and flashed him a winning smile…and the famished American found himself letting bygones be bygones. "Thank you," he said sincerely and ravenously ripped off a big chunk of the freshly baked bread he'd been eyeballing for the past few minutes. "This stuff is pretty dang tasty!" he determined, between mouthfuls.

"Thank you," Lin Duk copied and passed the Captain a pitcher of cool, fresh water with which to wash the tasty stuff down.

Murdock took a long, refreshing drink and then offered the jug to the Colonel.

Hannibal took a few swallows of the water, but shook his head when offered food. "Thanks, but I don't feel like eating right now."

And, it was Lin's turn to look stern. "But Colonel must be hungry! Colonel say same thing last night, also."

"I didn't say I wasn't hungry," Hannibal reminded him. "I said I don't feel like eating just now. There's a difference."

Lin Duk looked confused and more than a little worried, but he spared the POW a lecture of his own. The Colonel would just ignore him, anyways. Colonel Smith could be a very stubborn man. "Then…Colonel must be sick," he reasoned and began reaching for the prisoner's forehead.

Chains jingled again, as the Colonel latched onto Lin's raised forearm. "I may be coming down with something. A cold, most likely."

Lin Duk gasped, as the prisoner's frigid fingers wrapped around his warm wrist. "Colonel's touch is cold as death!"

Captain Murdock's jaw dropped—right in mid-chew.

Chains jingled once more, as the Colonel quickly snatched his hand back. "My, we are in a dramatic mood tonight, are-en't we."

"Lin Duk bring Colonel blank—"

"—No!" Hannibal interrupted and accompanied his stern order with another angry glare. The Colonel continued to speak for some time—in Lin Duk's own lingo again.

The Captain studied Lin Duk's moonlit face carefully. By watching Lin's reactions to the Colonel's words, he hoped to get some clue as to what was being said.

At first, Lin appeared worried…then amused…then even more worried…then shocked…and finally, sad…very, very sad.

The Colonel finished his latest lecture.

Lin tried desperately to maintain his crumbling composure, but a tear betrayed him. He quickly brushed it away. "There is…more…food, Captain," he shakily announced and extended the Colonel's untouched portion to him.

Murdock gave the Colonel a worried glance, and the man who was on everyone's side a sympathetic smile. "The Colonel's cold must be contagious, 'cuz I don't feel like eatin' anymore either, but thank you. That was very good. I really appreciate you bringin' it out here for us."

Lin Duk bowed his head gratefully. Then he took his basket of goodies and started to leave. "Better to forget English lesson for tomorrow night," he determined.

The completely exhausted Colonel was now on the verge of collapsing. He had to place a hand on his foreign friend's slumped shoulder for support. "Not a chance, Lin! And, since you seem to have such a flair for Shakespeare, let's try something from 'The Tempest', this time. Perhaps one of Prospero's dialogues. Ye-es. Act IV, Scene I, should do nicely," he muttered to himself and continued to use Lin's shoulder for support.

Hannibal's tired eyes got a peculiar glint to them. He lifted his head, squared his own sagging shoulders up, and then proceeded to display a real flair for Shakespeare, himself. "You do look, my friend, in a mov'd sort…as if you were dismay'd. Be cheerful, sir! Our revels now are ended. These, our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits…and are melted into air…into thin air. And, like the baseless fabric of this vision…the cloud-capp'd towers…the gorgeous palaces…the solemn temples…the great globe itself! Yeah, all which it inherit shall dissolve. And, like this insubstantial pageant faded…leave not a shred of cloud behind."

Hannibal halted his dramatic presentation and sat there, looking like he'd lost his place or something. "We are such stuff…as dreams are made on. And our little life…is…rounded…with…sleep." He stopped speaking again and started swaying. It appeared that he was about to pass out on his audience.

Lin and Murdock exchanged anxious glances.

The Captain scooted a little closer. Then he reached across the ladder and latched onto the Colonel's arms. Far from being frigid, the young pilot found the actor's body to be burning up!

The Captain's grip had a steadying effect on the Colonel. He stopped swaying and turned to his fellow prisoner. "Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled. Be not disturb'd with my infirmity—" his mouth stopped moving again and a strange look came over him. "We…are such stuff as…asdreamsare…made…on," he repeated, falling forward.

Murdock caught him and kept him from falling further.

Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. The General's girlfriend had just arrived from the city.

But Hannibal had no strength…and it wasn't raining anymore.

A second car door slammed and the moonlit compound faded into oblivion.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Hannibal's eyes snapped open and he fought to keep them that way. He blinked his deep blue orbs up at a vaguely familiar dashboard and silently wondered why he seemed to keep waking up in a car. The Colonel allowed his aching head to roll to the left.

Miss Amy Allen was seated right there beside him.

Only, the image appeared to be somewhat…shaky. He gave his groggy head a few shakes, in an attempt to refocus his fuzzy vision. The little lady's image remained shaky however, and it occurred to him that the reason Amy's image seemed so shaky was because she was shaking—shaking uncontrollably! Something had to be terribly wrong!

Hannibal got a sudden rush of adrenaline and tried to rise. Alas, becoming upright wasn't easy—with four, big, invisible guys sitting on your chest. The A-Team's fearless leader groaned and dropped back onto his bucket seat.

Upon hearing Hannibal's groan, Amy winced and reluctantly turned her gaze in his direction. It seemed the sudden—and unbelievably loud—sound of her slamming door had just jolted him back to consciousness…again. "Sorry to keep disturbing you, but if I don't slam it, the 'door ajar' buzzer won't stop buzz—"

"—Forget me-e!" Hannibal interrupted. "What—or who—has been disturbing you?"

Amy's calm demeanor crumbled. She sat there flexing and unflexing her fingers on the steering wheel…again. "I…I got this brainy idea to call the team together, but Face wasn't home. And all I could reach at B.A.'s was his answering machine. So, I called the VA, to give Murdock an update and ask if he knew where they were," she faltered, as her voice suddenly became as shaky as the rest of her. "Murdock's phone was out of order. So, I called the desk and asked to speak with the Ward Supervisor. She was very…upset. She said that they had just had a bad fire on her floor. In fact, the firemen were still there…mopping up." Amy tried, unsuccessfully, to steady her trembling voice. "It seems someone threw a Molotov cocktail into…Mr. Murdock's room."

Hannibal's heart skipped more than a few beats and he got another sudden rush of adrenaline. "WHA-AT?" Those four, big, invisible dudes went flying, as he snapped bolt upright in his bucket seat. The A-Team's Commander sat there, staring at Amy, looking stunned beyond belief, and asked with his eyes what he found too dreadful to even form into words.

"They didn't find a body. Murdock wasn't in his room. He had stuffed some clothes under the blankets on his bed, to make it look like he was sleeping."

Hannibal's deeply concerned eyes closed and he managed to exhale his held breath into one very long sigh of relief—before becoming doubled up in a fit of violent, excruciatingly painful coughing.

Miss Allen snatched a small, white paper sack from the top of her dash, pulled a medicine bottle out, opened it and then tapped her coughing passenger on his jerking left shoulder. "Here! Take some of this!"

He did, quickly downing several sips of the bottle's murky, green contents between coughs. "Ughhh!" he proclaimed with a grimace and kept right on coughing. He slipped a handkerchief from a pocket in his vest jacket and coughed into it for quite some time.

For an eternity—as far as Amy was concerned. "You gonna be okay?"

Hannibal was coughing too hard to speak. So, he simply nodded and kept right on coughing.

But Amy didn't like the way he looked. His eyes were shut tightly. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his pained face was ghostly pale. She didn't like the way he sounded either. Or the way he couldn't seem to catch his breath between coughs. "You sure?" she anxiously inquired and sat there, feeling totally useless…well, not totally. "Maybe you should try some more of this?" she prescribed and held the open bottle of 'Ughhh!' out to him again.

Hannibal, who never worried because it was counter-productive, was beginning to worry…but just a little. Those four, big, invisible guys now seemed to be sitting on his back. One of them had stuck a dagger between his shoulder blades and was twirling it around.

He forced his eyes back open. Amy's body was still trembling—worse now than it was before. The girl obviously found his little coughing spell most disturbing. That fact disturbed him, but it was her news about what someone had tried to do to Murdock that disturbed him most of all. He got a tremendous surge of adrenaline this time, and then sat there, hunched over—holding his labored breath. It worked. As his breathing stopped, so did the coughing.

He wasn't the only one whose breathing had stopped.

Amy may have been disturbed by the Colonel's coughing, but she was even more alarmed by his sudden not coughing—or breathing. The girl exhaled a horrified gasp. "Hannibal!"

Her doubled-up passenger gave her a 'thumbs up' sign and continued to hold his breath. He held it just as long as he could. Which, for the guy who played 'The Aquamaniac', turned out to be an incredibly long time. Eventually, he chanced a quick, shallow breath through his nostrils. No coughing. He chanced another...and then another. Still no coughing. So, he slowly straightened up. "Must've been…the change in position," he determined, between gasps.

Amy watched in awe, as an amazing transformation suddenly came over the Colonel. She'd seen it before—this sudden change in his appearance—but it had never been quite this dramatic.

One minute, he was gravely ill and coughing himself to death.

The next, he was his cool, calm, confident, in-control self again.

Hannibal's eyes got that peculiar glint in them that they always got when he was, as B.A. liked to refer to it, 'on the jazz'. "Did they search the whole hospital?"

Amy was startled by his sudden inquiry. "Yes. He's not there. And that's why I'm so worried. Murdock _promised_ me he'd stay by his phone."

"Well then, that's one promise we can all be grateful he didn't keep," Hannibal solemnly stated and flicked the back of his seat up. "Let's go, kid!"

Amy stuck the cap back on the bottle, the bottle back in the sack, and the sack back on her dash. The little lady obligingly started her car up but then hesitated to pull it out onto the street. "Go where?"

"The Hotel Regina. And, step on it!" Hannibal ordered, bundling up his afghan and tossing it into the back.

The visiting reporter was relieved to find the man with all the answers back in charge. "Why are we going there? B.A.'s not home. Remember?"

"Yes, but maybe Murdock called B.A. and had him spring him from the hospital. Maybe the message is on B.A.'s answering machine. And, just maybe, it'll give us some clue as to where they are." Hannibal finished his explanation and started stashing his dropped cigar and his handy hankie back into his vest pocket.

Amy suddenly felt terribly worried again. She could have sworn that she caught a glimpse of something red on his crumpled up white kerchief. 'Probably just the red thread of a monogram,' she reassured herself.

Miss Allen put the thought of the crimson mark out of her mind and then drove off—rather rapidly—in the requested direction.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

H.M. Murdock was seated on a park bench, just six blocks down from the VA Hospital in West LA.

The Molotov cocktail's intended target absently tossed—er, lobbed another kernel of popcorn at the flock of greedy pigeons that had gathered on the ground near his sneakered feet.

He wasn't paying particular attention to either the popcorn or the pigeons.

He hadn't even heard the wailing sirens of the three fire trucks that had gone speeding by a few minutes earlier.

The young man was too preoccupied with his thoughts…which all seemed to center on Colonel Smith and how sick he may, or may not, be.

He'd know by now, if it weren't for B.A.. He sure wished the Sergeant hadn't a' contacted him and told him to meet him there. Because, now, he was sure to have missed Amy's phone call.

He tried to tell B.A. that he could catch a cab and meet him somewhere _after_ he talked to Amy. But, the Sergeant insisted that he 'wait in the park with the rest a' the squirrels' and he'd be along to pick him up, when he could. And, B.A. was bigger than he was.

What did the Sergeant wanna see him for, anyways?

All the big guy would say was that he was 'jes' followin' Hannibal's orders, fool!'

But, why would the Colonel order B.A. to pick him up?

It just didn't make any sense!

Murdock's tired brain balked at all the unanswered questions he kept running through it…his poor, tired brain. He hadn't given it, or the rest of his body, a break from worrying since he first saw the Colonel at Amy's 'Welcome Home/So Long Again' party, at the Golden Pagoda Tuesday night.

Gosh! Had it really been _that_ long? No wonder he felt like a zombie. Today was Thursday! It was almost Thursday night!

Oh well…It wasn't the first time Murdock had lost sleep worrying over the Colonel being sick. His reeling mind reeled back in time. The park…the pigeons…and the popcorn disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

A tiny moonlit compound replaced the sunny little park, and an uncomfortable, wooden crossbeam took the place of the bench.

Murdock's long legs were straddling the 'clothesline' at the 'Hanoi Hilton'. The Captain's arms were hugging a collapsed Colonel Smith.

Lin Duk Koo was perched on a ladder beside them, staring down at his foreign friend's limp and lifeless body, looking terribly grief-stricken. "Colonel Smith is…dead," he regrettably announced.

Murdock's heart missed a few beats. But, then, the kid felt the Colonel's chest expanding and contracting and relievedly announced, "He's just passed out, Lynduck."

Lin's gloomy expression lightened a little. But, he was in need of some further assurance. "Colonel Smith not dead yet?"

The Captain shook his head and then posed a certain question—for the third time. "How long has Colonel Smith been here?"

"Colonel come same time as Lin Duk."

Murdock sighed and quickly rephrased his inquiry. "Okay. Then, how long have you been here?"

"General Chou bring Lin Duk with him when General come to take over whole POW camp," he paused to perform some silent calculations. "Two days more makes seven weeks."

The young man was amazed. "And, how long has he been chained to this pole?"

Lin Duk did some more quick and quiet calculating. "Hmmm, yesterday—no, day before is five weeks."

The Captain gasped in horror and then incredulously exclaimed, "WHA-AT?" He stared down at the old guy with the ghastly-scarred wrists until his disbelief gave way to anger. "But…WHY-Y?"

"General Chou want Colonel to die," Lin Duk sadly replied. "But, not to die too quickly."

Murdock glanced back up. "Why? What did the Colonel ever do to the General?"

"When General first arrive he wish to interrogate all new prisoners. Colonel Smith most new prisoner in camp.

General demand information from Colonel. But, Colonel Smith most stubborn man—most uncooperative.

General decide to make example of Colonel to teach other prisoners to be most cooperative. General has Colonel beaten—almost to death. Then General force Colonel to mop his own blood up from floor of 'lounge'.

Then, General say, 'Now, are you going to give me what I want? Or do we have to start all over again?'

And, Colonel Smith say, 'Well, I doubt if it's what you want. But, it's all you're going to get.' And he throw bucket of dirty water from scrubbing floor in General's face. Lin Duk never see General Chou so angry before…"

Captain Murdock overcame his initial shock and glanced down at the unconscious man in his arms. "Talk about 'brown rice' for brains…" he muttered to himself. Then he turned back to Lin Duk and fearfully inquired, "What happened after that?"

"As Lin say General is most furious. General order Colonel Smith to apologize for humiliating him in front of his men.

Colonel say General shouldn't care if he lose face because he has many others to replace the one he lose.

General Chou even most angrier. General give order for Colonel to be locked in little metal box until he is ready to apologize.

Colonel Smith stay in little metal box four days in hot sun—no food—no water.

General expect Colonel to die.

But Colonel Smith still breathing.

Then clouds come. It rains six days. Rains very hard. Roof leak very bad.

So, Colonel get water. When sun not shine Colonel not sweat. So he stay alive still.

General Chou visit Colonel. General say he still waiting for prisoner to apologize.

Colonel Smith say then it is a good thing General not holding his breath. Then again maybe not such a good thing.

That is when General give up on prisoner and apology. General give order for Colonel to be hung here so General can have pleasure of watching prisoner die nice—slow—painful death.

General order water only—no food.

But, Lin Duk help Colonel. Soon Colonel Smith have strength to climb pole." The guy who was on everyone's side finished his rather lengthy little revelation concerning the ex-professor's exploits over the past seven weeks and stared down at the star of his narration, wearing the same look he'd worn earlier.

Captain Murdock recalled the look and the circumstances surrounding it. "Lynduck, what did Colonel Smith say before he passed out?"

Lin sniffled and blinked his blurring vision clear. "Colonel Smith remind Lin Duk of General Chou's temper. Colonel not wish Lin to get in big trouble with General. Colonel tell Lin to not bring blanket. Colonel say he can make food disappear. But he cannot eat blanket. Colonel say perhaps Captain Murdock can be persuaded to teach Lin Duk authentic American cowboy song. In return Lin can teach Captain how to say 'The General's girlfriend has a headache tonight.'"

The young pilot managed a sad smile. "Was that all?"

"No. Colonel also ask Lin to help Captain get back to this compound next rainy night."

Captain Murdock stared thoughtfully down at the collapsed Colonel. All the expressions had been accounted for but one…the last one. "What did he say that made you so sad?"

Lin was somewhat surprised by the question. Then, the missing expression reappeared on his moonlit face. "Colonel say that he is…dying. Colonel ask Lin to please not bring him food and water anymore."

The Captain found this particular revelation positively appalling. "WHA-AT?"

"General Chou prefer Colonel to die. But not to die too quickly," the man who was on everyone's side sadly explained. "Colonel say he prefer to die more quickly," Lin's voice cracked. He paused to brush another tear away. "Lin Duk prefer Colonel not to die at all."

"Captain prefer Colonel not to die at all, too!" the young American immediately assured him. Then, he stared thoughtfully back down at the motionless man in his arms.

Murdock was now able to draw certain definite conclusions concerning the unconscious Colonel: The old guy definitely was crazy. He definitely was also very courageous. He definitely was deserving of his still growing admiration. And, most importantly at the moment, he definitely did **not **deserve to die, hanging there on that stupid pole in that stinking place.

Colonel Smith had his own unique style. There was an entertaining method to his madness. And, one other quality that the Captain found most appealing: There was a seeming indomitableness to this crazy Colonel's spirit. Colonel Smith _had_ what it took to make it out of there. So then, why shouldn't he?

Murdock quickly came to one, final conclusion and turned back to the man on the ladder. "Look, Lynduck, no matter what Colonel Smith says, keep bringing him his food and water. And, when you see him tomorrow night, give him this message: Tell him, 'Hang on brains. Brawn is on the way.' You got that?"

"Hang on brains. Brawn is on the way?" Lin uncertainly parroted.

The prisoner nodded.

"And Colonel Smith will know what this means?"

The young pilot gave him another nod.

"That is good. Because Lin Duk does not."

Captain Murdock managed just the slightest of smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

B.A. Baracus pulled his black and gray GMC van up to the park bench where Murdock sat, tossing invisible popcorn to a flock of invisible pigeons…and sporting a slight smile on his fool face.

The Sergeant shook his head and grunted, disgustedly. "C'mon, Murdock!" he ordered, gruffly. "Let's go, man!"

Murdock jerked, as he was startled back to reality.

"An' don' bring that bag a' yer invisible popcorn with you in my van!" the big guy with the gruff voice added, as an afterthought.

H.M shot the van's driver a look of confusion and then glanced down to find he'd just reached into an empty bag. He must've ran out of popcorn while he was daydreaming…and the pigeons must have left…and B.A. must have thought—. What B.A. must have thought caused the slight smile he'd been wearing to fleetingly reappear.

Murdock tossed a final handful of invisible popcorn into his mouth. Then he got stiffly to his feet, crumpled the empty paper sack up and shot it into the trash basket beside his bench. "Two points," he muttered to himself, and stepped quickly up to the passenger's side of the van.

He gave the van's driver an annoyed glare and then vented his outrage at B.A.'s outrageous interruption of his plan to receive _the_ phone call. "Okay, _Bosco_…what's put a bee in yore bonnet?"

The fool's snide remark enraged B.A.. "I ain't got no bonnet, sucker! An' you ain't gonna have no head…unless you shut yer mouth an' get in this van!"

The Captain thought the Big Guy's threat—er, promise over for a few moments, and then, obediently, scrambled up into the vehicle. He shut the door, but not his smart mouth. "So, Sergeant Baracus," he snottily began, "what gives?"

B.A. appeared to be even more peeved. But then he gave the impudent upstart a wary scrutiny and nervously inquired, "You been poppin' them funny little pills, again?"

His question caused Murdock to become enraged. "You mean, you made me miss Amy's phone call, and made me sit on that stupid bench out there—all afternoon—just so you could ask me if I've eaten any _Tic-Tacs_, of late?"

B.A.'s face filled with concern. "If it ain' pills, then what _has_ gotten into you, fool?"

Murdock stared blankly ahead, looking like he felt—like a zombie. "After prolonged periods without proper sleep, I have a tendency to throw caution to the wind."

Baracus considered the Captain's reply and then delivered one of his own. "Yeah? Well, you bes' be careful what you say. Or, I'm gonna be throwin' _you_ to the wind!" The big guy shifted his van back into gear and began driving off.

Murdock shifted his mouth back into gear. "Where have you been, anyways? I was waitin' there a lo-ong, lo-ong time."

"I was workin' out, man," B.A. casually replied and flexed the enormous biceps muscle on his bare right arm. "If you don' use it, you lose it."

The Captain's anger came boiling back to the surface. He could not believe his ears! He had to miss Amy's phone call for _that_? Murdock reopened his smart mouth and caution sailed right out his side window. "Oh…so _that's_ what happened to yore brain."

"You better watch it, sucker!" Baracus warned, latching onto the sleeve of the Captain's leather jacket and pulling him to within striking range. "Hannibal ain' here to protect you!"

But Murdock didn't need to be reminded of that. He was aware that Hannibal wasn't there. In fact, Hannibal's absence was all that he really seemed to _be_ aware of. "That's yore solution for everything, isn't it, B.A.," he sadly determined. "Just _hit_ it…and it'll go away."

The Sergeant released the sad little man's flight jacket. "What's gotten into you, Murdock?" he re-demanded, his gruff voice now hushed and filled with concern. He gave the little guy in the seat beside him a worried glance. "Yer actin' strange—even for you."

The Captain exhaled an exasperated gasp. "I told you on the phone. Hannibal's sick, B.A…_real_ sick!"

Baracus shot the 'little mother hen' who was so worried about her 'chick' a sympathetic glance, this time. "Hannibal didn' soun' so sick, ta me. He jes' soun' like his regular ol' self, ta me."

Murdock was both confused and astounded. "You talked to the Colonel?"

"Hannibal talked ta me. He lef' me a message on my answerin' machine."

"When?"

"This afternoon."

"What time did he call?"

"My answerin' machine don' tell time, fool."

"Well, what was the message?"

"If I tell yah that, it'll spoil the surprise."

"But, I don't wanna be surprised, B.A.. I **hate** surprises!"

The big guy's eyes began to narrow into menacing slits again. "Believe me, sucker! Yer gonna love this one! You'll see…"

Murdock gasped in exasperation again. "Can you at least tell me if he was coughing?"

"I tol' you he didn' soun' sick! An' I wouldn' a' tol' yah that if he was coughin', fool! Why are you so set on Hannibal bein' sick anyway?"

"You were at Amy's party. You saw how he was coughing. He coughed all night!"

"You be coughin', too—if those 300 pound goons held you underwater that long," B.A. reminded him. "On secon' thought, you wouldn' be coughin'. Cuz, you be dead."

Murdock disregarded Baracus' morbid remarks and sat there, looking more sad and worried than ever. "You remember what those Saigon doctors said? They said that the real critical time for someone with pneumonia is when they suddenly stop coughing."

"Hannibal ain' got no pneumonia, man! I tol' yah, he soun' like his ol' self."

"Well, he's got a fever, chills and a bad headache! And, that was his 'clothesline' cough. I'm sure of it!"

"Yer givin' me a bad headache, fool! Now, I don' wanna hear no more talk about disease in my van!"

This time, H.M. respected the no-nonsense tone in the Big Guy's gruff voice and remained silent.

It was the Colonel's 'clothesline' cough the Captain had heard, all right. Murdock would recognize that particular cough anywhere. He aimed his zombie-like gaze out his open side window and thought back to the first time he ever heard that ominous sound…


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

It was now daybreak at the 'Hanoi Hilton'.

A heavy mist hugged the cold, damp ground of the compound. But, twelve feet up, the air was cool, crisp and clear.

Captain Murdock was still sitting there, straddling the pole his wrists were chained to.

So was Colonel Smith.

The difference was that the Captain was wide-awake. He'd remained awake all night.

The Colonel was still passed out cold in the Captain's arms. He'd remained unconscious all night. Hannibal's head rested on his fellow prisoner's right shoulder.

Murdock's chin rested on the Colonel's right shoulder. He sat there, enjoying the peaceful silence and watching the little vapor clouds that were rising up from the feverish Colonel's steaming back. At long last, he felt the motionless man in his arms begin to stir.

The Colonel let out a feeble groan and slowly turned his head to find himself face to face, and practically nose to nose, with the Captain. His sleepy eyes widened, and it became apparent, by the look on his face, that he had never woken up in another man's arms before.

Murdock saw the look and was forced to smile. "Mornin', Colonel."

His fellow prisoner remained speechless. Hannibal stifled another involuntary groan and slowly straightened up, to get a few of the kinks out of his very stiff back. He grimaced and leaned forward again, to massage the back of his even stiffer neck. By the time he was upright again, he had found his missing voice. "You sat there like that…all night?"

The perplexed, incredulous tone of the old guy's inquiry caused the Captain's smile to return. "Believe me, Colonel, I didn't mind a bit. It got awfully cold out here last night. And, well, with the way you were burnin' up an' all, it was sort a' like huggin' a nice, cozy campfire."

His fellow prisoner looked deeply skeptical.

Murdock stretched his stiff arms as far as his chains would allow and then re-adjusted his seat on their pole. "Oo-ooh," he winced. "Straddle sores are worse than saddle sores."

The Colonel found the young man's light observation to be both truthful and amusing. He squinted across the compound, at the warm rays of golden sunlight that were beginning to filter up over the roof of the 'manager's office'. "Well, Captain Murdock, I wish I could return the favor. But, the guard will be coming out here any minute now. So, we'd better get down."

"Don't worry about me, Colonel," the Captain quickly quipped. "I slept last week."

Hannibal shivered and stared at his cheery companion, looking both amused and amazed. "You always like this in the morning?"

"Nope. I usually wake up on the wrong side a' the beam. You can go first, Colonel. I'll help you down…"

Hannibal's smile faded fast, as he realized he was being treated the same way a Boy Scout would treat a little old lady that he was helping across the street.

"How yah feelin' this morning, Colonel?" Murdock anxiously inquired, and began assisting the still feverish fellow down from their perch.

"O-Old," Hannibal glumly replied. "Very, very o-old." He saw the Captain's anxious expression and quickly added, "But, well-rested, too. Thanks to you." He noticed the concerned young man seemed genuinely relieved to hear that.

Murdock reluctantly released his grip on the o-old guy's scarred wrists.

The Colonel grimaced and gasped and gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. But, an involuntary groan escaped from his tightly clamped jaw as his manacled wrists were forced, once more, to bear the full weight of his body.

Murdock gave the poor old man another deeply concerned look and then, reluctantly, slid down from their pole perch himself. "A-Ahh!" the Captain cried out, as the sharp metal bracelets cut into his wrists. "Man!" he gasped. "I forgot how _awful_…this really is!" He gasped again and glanced in the Colonel's direction. He saw that the old guy was in too much agony to be able to speak at the moment and decided he would try to distract him from his misery. "Yah know," he gasped, "I was kind a' worried there for awhile, Colonel."

It worked.

The Colonel's attention was drawn away from his great discomfort to the young man dangling before him.

The Captain quickly continued, speaking between gasped breaths. "I was afraid you were gonna wake up this morning…the same way you passed out last night…quoting Shakespeare."

The Colonel's tightly pursed lips formed a slight smile and he dramatically replied, "My kingdom…for an aspirin!"

Murdock was both amused and confused. "I thought that was…My kingdom…for a Road Runner," he teased and was rewarded with another slight smile. "Richard III…Right?"

His companion looked duly impressed. "You've been holding out on me, Captain…I told you you have what it takes…to make it out of here."

The Captain was about to ask what 'quoting Shakespeare' had to do with 'escaping from a North Vietnamese POW camp', when the Colonel started to cough.

Hannibal coughed for quite some time. "You know," he gasped, upon regaining his breath and his composure, "I just realized something. We just spent the entire night in each others arms, and I don't even know your first name."

Murdock was even more reluctant to give the old guy his first name, than he was his last. "Howard."

The Colonel's smile reappeared. "That's my middle name. Howard what?"

"Howard M.," the Captain shrewdly replied.

The old guy grinned outright. "C'mon…What does the M. stand for?"

Howard M. closed his eyes and reluctantly replied, "Monroe."

The Colonel chuckled delightedly. Then he coughed and quickly apologized. "I'm sorry, Captain. But, you just don't strike me as the 'Howard Monroe' type."

The Captain's eyes snapped open, and he stared across at the Colonel in utter astonishment. "That's exactly what Superman said! He used to call me _Howlin' Mad_, instead."

Hannibal looked more than little amazed himself. "You and Superman fly together, do you?"

The younger man's face filled with sorrow. He hung there, for quite a long quiet while, staring trance-like…off into the distance.

Colonel Smith was beginning to wish he'd never made his last remark. "I'm…sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to stir up any bad memories."

Murdock's dazed eyes began to dampen. He blinked to clear his blurring vision. But, it was blurring faster than he could blink and tears started to trickle down the sides of his sadder than sad face. "They're not bad memories, Colonel," he softly assured his concerned companion. "They're good memories. Superman is—" he swallowed hard, "—was my door gunner…Sergeant Kenton. We were best friends. I called him Superman because his first name was Clark…and because he was always braggin' about how he was…faster than a speeding bullet," his voice cracked. The Captain closed his watering eyes tightly, but the tears continued to stream steadily down his cheeks. He sniffled and tried to swipe them away with the sleeves of his flight jacket. The combination of grief, torture and fatigue proved to be too much for him, however. He was rapidly losing the struggle to regain his composure.

"Go with the flow and let it out, kid," the Colonel gently urged. "There's no shame in grieving."

Grieving? In the six days since his capture, Murdock hadn't even allowed himself to think about Clark, let alone grieve over him. Now, he was tired of holding it all in. He couldn't hold back anymore. His feelings were currently stronger than he was. So, he took the Colonel's advice and went with the flow.

"We were flying a rescue mission…close to the DMZ," the Captain began, his quivering voice just barely above a whisper. "We flew right into an ambush. I tried to get us away. But, Charlie had strafed us with machine gun fire pretty good. Clark was…killed. Our 'copter was put outta commission. I had to crash land in a little clearing.

Before the rotors could even come to a stop, the VC had us surrounded. They took me, and the two medics we were carrying, captive. They wouldn't let me see Clark. But, the medics told me he was…dead," his voice faltered again.

He grimaced and choked back his tears. "What are we doin' here, Colonel?" he suddenly demanded and shot the wise, old, ex-professor a desperately pleading look. "Why do great guys like Clark have to die? Death should have some meaning to it. But, this is all so…senseless!" He let his head fall back and then hung there, sobbing softly.

The Captain continued to cry, for quite some time…openly, and now, unashamedly.

The young man's grief gradually gave way to anger. "There are no winners in this god-forsaken place! Everyone's a loser! Clark lost his life! I los_t_ my best friend! Carrie lost her husband! Little Benny lost his father! And, for WHAT? Nixon's gonna pull us all outta here and Victor Charlie's gonna take the damn country over—JUST LIKE WE WERE NEVER EVEN HERE! So, why did he have to die? Why did so many people have to die?"

The Captain's quiet questions went unanswered.

Murdock cried 'til he couldn't cry anymore.

The Captain was so completely exhausted from crying he didn't even have the energy to be mad anymore. So, he just hung there, staring blurrily up at the wooden beam above their heads…the one to which their wrists remained chained. 'Who hangs people on clotheslines?' he silently asked himself. 'This is insane!' But then, so was just about everything _in country_…and, perhaps, just about everyone. His own mind felt like it was about to 'snap'…'snap' like a very dry…very brittle…very fragile twig. He shuddered, visibly, and moved on to a far less frightening, but every bit as painful, subject. "I've seen a lot of weird things over here," he quietly remarked, his voice sounding as drained as he felt. "But nothin' compares to this!" he gasped, at the agonizing pain which radiated down from his wrists, through his arms and into his severely stretched and strained shoulders.

The Colonel, who had been silently observing the Captain the entire time, finally spoke up. "What do you mean, weird? Don't you hang people out on clotheslines back in Cody?"

The Captain smiled at the absolute absurdity of the Colonel's crazy notion. "Nope. The only thing we hang on clotheslines, back in Cody, is clothes."

"I see. So then, what do you call the contraptions you hang the people on? Peoplelines?"

Murdock was forced to grin, this time. "We don't hang peopl_e_ on anything," he proudly declared. But then, a mental image of people hanging suspended in mid-air, flashed through his weary brain and he quickly added, "We don't hang _people_, period!"

"Not even Road Runner thieves?"

The Captain's grin broadened. "Not even them."

"I suppose next, you'll be telling me that you don't have guys going around cracking people's ribs with their rifle butts, either."

The Captain continued to be most amused. "We lead a very sheltered life in Cody. Things are pretty normal. Some of the people are kind a' crazy, though."

"It's just the opposite over here, Captain. Things are pretty crazy here in Nam. Some of the people are kind 'a normal, though. Death still bothers them. They still expect things to make some kind of sense."

Murdock slowly lowered his gaze.

The two men's eyes met.

The Colonel saw the look he'd been expecting to see. "You can relax, Captain. You're not cracking up…yet. When the death and destruction doesn't bother you anymore…and all this seems perfectly reasonable to you…_then_ you can start to worry."

Murdock gave the old man a look of absolute awe. Why, it was almost as if the Colonel was some kind of psychic.

"Everyone's always telling me that I'm crazy," the clairvoyant Colonel calmly continued. "But, if and when I ever really do go crazy, I won't need someone to tell me I am. I'll be the first to know. They may have crushed the carton. But, they haven't cracked the eggs.

And, I don't really mind being called a crazy lunatic. In the midst of all this lunacy, being called a lunatic is actually quite a compliment, when you come to think of it. I mean, when a bunch of **real** lunatics call you a real lunatic, then you can bet that you must be perfectly normal.

You see, everything is _relative_, Captain Murdock. And, it all hinges on that infinitely tough question: What is normal?

What makes that question so tough is that the answer changes with any given situation.

For example: You shoot people in Wyoming, and society labels you a crazed sniper. You're a regular public menace.

You shoot people in Vietnam, and society labels you a good soldier. You're a regular public hero.

So, you see, it's not the behavior, itself, but where it's performed, that tends to make society judge whether it's normal or abnormal.

Society also likes to define any behavior that sticks out in a crowd as being abnormal. And, society is always pressuring abnormal people to behave normally.

But, is what is normal by society's standards always right?

Think of it. If you don't shoot people in Wyoming, then society says you're normal. If you don't shoot people in Vietnam, society says you're abnormal. Because people shoot people in Nam.

Are you really abnormal? Maybe you just don't shoot _people_, period. What if you personally feel that it is abnormal to shoot people anywhere—at any time? Whose standards are you going to live by? Society's? Or, your own? Whose conscience do you listen to? Someone else's? Or, your own?

Well, just remember 'The Emperor's New Clothes', kid. And, to thine own self be true! Because society doesn't seem to value life too highly, these days. While you, on the other hand, might have such a high regard for the sanctity of life, that you would rather lose your own, than take another's.

By not shooting people, you would be behaving normally for you…and for back in the States…but abnormally for Nam.

Trouble is, you're stuck here in Nam where abnormally normal people are pressuring you to behave normally abnormal.

Can you appreciate the insanity of that, Captain?

Back in the States, crazies are pressured to behave normally, and over here, normal guys are pressured to behave like a bunch of crazies.

I mean, what is reality? Suddenly, normal is crazy and crazy is normal

No wonder the poor kids are so confused when they get here. No wonder so many of them finally turn to drugs. It's amazing that more of them don't. How can you even begin to cope with reality…when you're not even sure anymore what it is? How do you deal with something you don't understand? Since they can't cope, they try to escape. Just shut up, shoot up and shoot at.

Don't get me wrong. I don't approve of the use of drugs. I can just understand why some people might choose to go that route, over here.

Personally, I don't need any outside help to get high," the Colonel licked his dry, cracked lips and gazed dazedly across at the Captain. "You know, I believe I may be _delirious_."

Captain Murdock gazed amazedly back at him. Then he took advantage of the lull in the old guy's delirious rantings and fired off a quick question. "You get high?"

Hannibal nodded. "All the time!"

"On what?"

"On life itself, my boy…On life itself. You see, when I was just a kid—like you—I went for the gusto they're always telling you to go for, in those beer commercials. And, I got hooked on it…real bad. 'Supporting my habit' just may be the death of me, yet." The Colonel stopped to stare sadly down at the ground beneath his swaying boots. "It is definitely going to be the death of me…"

"Gusto? What's gusto?" Murdock quickly inquired, anxious to change the subject.

"Gusto is living life to the fullest extent possible, without actually getting yourself killed in the process."

The Captain looked deeply skeptical. "How does _that_ make you high?"

"It doesn't. That just gets the old juices flowing. I figure it's the juices that make me high."

"Juices?"

"Yeah. Juices. You know, blood, adrenaline, endorphins…all that jazz." Hannibal saw that his companion seemed more skeptical than ever, and quickly tacked on, "Don't knock it, 'til you've tried it…kid."

The kid gave up on the 'juices and all that jazz' and moved on to another topic of interest. "You got a conscience, Colonel?"

"Everybody has a conscience, Captain. They come as standard equipment when we're born. Some people just choose to ignore theirs, is all."

"Do you ignore yours?"

"Heavens no! My conscience is my guide. In fact, I never leave home without consulting it."

"What does your conscience say about shooting people?"

"John Hannibal Smith's conscience says: That shooting people is wrong…very, very wrong. Shooting at them is also wrong. But, it's not as bad as killing them. Killing people is a definite no-no. So, don't even shoot at anyone, unless they shoot at you first, and then try to be a straight shooter. So that you don't actually kill anybody you may be shooting back at."

The delirious Colonel and his talking conscience magnanimously mystified Captain Murdock. "Have you ever shot anyone?"

"Unfortunately, yes. When shot at first, I do have this survival tendency to shoot back. And, I have been known, on occasion, to put some people who were trying to kill me out of commission for awhile."

"Are you a straight shooter, Colonel?"

"You mean, have I ever actually killed anybody?"

The Captain nodded.

"No. At least, not to my knowledge. And, what my conscience and I don't know…well, it's a gray area. But, fortunately, I've learned to live with it. And, _that_ is the key to it all, Captain. After this is all over, you have to be able to live with yourself. That's why you've got to deep-six what others say is normal or abnormal and be true to yourself. After all, how are you ever going to go back and live with other people, if you can't even live with your—" Hannibal's narrative was interrupted by another bout of painful coughing. "—self," he finished with a gasp, when the coughing fit finally subsided. The Colonel squinted off across the compound.

There was a North Vietnamese guard leaning against the door to the 'lounge'.

"When did he get here?" Hannibal dazedly demanded.

"About fifteen minutes, or so, ago."

"I must be _delirious_," the old guy glumly repeated and gave his hot, dizzy head a few cautious shakes. Something suddenly occurred to him and he turned back to his tortured companion. "You want me to call him over and tell him about their _big mistake_?"

Murdock's pain-racked body screamed 'Hell, yes!' His brain rationalized that the discomfort, though still intense, was—thanks to the crazy Colonel's distracting delirium—somewhat more bearable. "Nah. Let's see how long it takes them to discover _me_, on their own," he boldly suggested.

Hannibal was forced to grin.

"You know, Colonel," the Captain continued, "I must be _delirious_, too. Cuz, you sure seem to make a lot a' sense. Then again, I thought you said your middle name was Howard."

"It is."

"So, why did I just hear you call yourself John _Hannibal_ Smith?"

"Because John Howard is on my birth certificate, and John Hannibal is on all my military records. And, _I'm in the Army now_," he summed up rather melodiously.

"Why'd you hafta change it for the military?"

"Because all the world's a stage, Captain. And, everyone on it is an actor. Right now, I'm playing a dual role. Back in the States, I play Dr. John Howard Smith, Ph.D. Over here, I'm John Hannibal Smith, Lt. Colonel, USASF. If one is going to operate under an assumed commission, one had better take on an assumed identity, as well. That way, they can't check up on you, you see."

But, Murdock didn't see, at all.

"It's a long…sa-ad…story," the actor assured him.

"So-o? I ain't goin' anywhere…yet."

Perhaps, if he hadn't been quite so delirious, or quite so certain of his impending death, Hannibal may not have continued to answer the young Captain's questions. But, the conversation was proving to be a real distraction, for the both of them, and they were proving to be very good company for each other, indeed! So, the Colonel took his own advice and went with the flow. "Okay, kid. Where do you want me to start?"

Captain Murdock's face lit up, like a child whose father was about to tell him his favorite bedtime story. "Start at the very beginning. For instance, where abouts are you from?"

"John Hannibal hails from all over. But John Howard is from Holbrook, Massachusetts…originally."

"Where's that at?"

"Holbrook is a little town in Norfolk County, Mass., about a dozen or so miles south-east of Boston."

"What about your family? Did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No. Little Johnny was an only child. In fact, I was sort of an orphan. My mother was a nurse who worked nights at Boston General. My father was a foreman who worked days at the cement block factory in the center of town. Between working and sleeping, I guess they didn't have much time for a kid…or each other, for that matter. They split when I was ten.

My mother re-married, right away…one of the doctors she worked with at the hospital. She got stuck with little Johnny. And, I got stuck in this huge Colonial Townhouse in North Boston, complete with an upstairs _and_ a downstairs maid…a combination butler/gardener…and three wicked stepbrothers."

"What was your stepfather like?"

"I never got to know my stepfather. Step-daddy doctor always stayed at the hospital until way past my bedtime. I think the longest I ever saw him was when he and my mother came down to the police station to pick me up, after I'd been caught trying to run away from home."

"Why'd you run away?"

"Nobody would believe me. But, I swear it's true. My three stepbrothers, who were much bigger than me, by the way, really were trying to do me in. And, I don't know why, either. Unless they felt I was competing with them for their father's attention, or something. About the only way any of them could ever have gotten the good doctor's attention would've been to break something, or contract something and become one of his patients.

Anyway, after I ran away for the fifth time, my mother took me to see a child psychologist. What a trip that was! The child psychologist said that Johnny was having trouble _adjusting_ and recommended that I be placed in a more _controlled_ environment.

And so, at the age of eleven, I was shipped off to one of those military type academies that cater to bad little boys from North Boston. I hated it there. But at least I didn't have to fear for my life.

I earned the Academy Award for best actor, seven years in a row. I had to convince everyone that I was happy there, so they wouldn't send me home during breaks, or they would have really been _breaks_.

My summers were all spent at Camp Scarlet Oak, in the wilds of Maine.

I was an Eagle Scout when I was thirteen. Being an Eagle Scout was sort of like becoming one of King Arthur's Knights of The Round Table. I was chivalrous to a fault, back then. Even now, I'm a real sucker for a skirt with a sob story.

After I graduated from the academy, I was supposed to attend Boston College. But, I got caught up in a bad draft and, what should have been my freshman year in college, turned out to be a living nightmare in South Korea.

The first lesson I learned in Korea was that, if you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs, then you must not be an officer. But, every time one of those General Custers yelled 'Cha-arge!' I made sure it wasn't going to be my last stand.

I must've acted like I knew what I was doing, because they kept handing me field promotions. By the time my tour of duty was up, I was Captain Jack Smith.

When Jack got back to the States, he attended Boston College, as previously planned. Jack was a fun guy.

In the fall of '54, he met Miss Jacqueline Saunders, and she became his college sweetheart. They were married a year later.

Jack and Jackie were a fun couple. The two of them had everything in common. Besides love and adoration, they both shared similar backgrounds. They both went for the gusto. They both enjoyed performing Elizabethan Drama with a local amateur theater group. They both took teaching positions after they finished their undergraduate studies at Boston College. And, they both continued to work toward their doctoral degrees in their respective fields. His was to be in the Social Sciences and hers was to be in the Applied Sciences. He was going to be a Political Science professor and she was going to be a professor of Biochemistry.

They each got their respective degrees and respected positions on the faculty at MIT. And, they both taught there…up until their deaths…last year," the Colonel's soft-spoken words trailed off and he hung there, gazing sadly off into the distance again. "A drunk broad-sided Jackie's car, in an intersection, less than a mile from their home," he quietly continued, after what seemed like an eternity. "Jack rushed to the Emergency Room at Boston General…and the two of them died there…in each other's arms."

There followed another seemingly endless silence.

"Before she died, she told Jack to remember Robert Louis Stevenson. He had given her a plaque with a quote by Robert Louis Stevenson, just a week before the accident.

They were driving to work one morning, when Jackie spotted this dress in a storefront window. She wanted to stop and buy it. But it was already 9:55 and Jack had a 10:00 class. So, they didn't stop. By the time she got back to the store, the dress had already been sold. For days, she reminded Jack that it was his fault that she'd missed out on the dress.

The plaque he gave her said: 'It is an ill business turning to the world a smiling face, when we carry in our breast a broken heart.' He figured she'd take the hint and shut up about the dress.

Reminding him of the quote, was her way of telling him she wanted him to go on without her. But Jack died that day. And, all that remained was an empty shell of a man by the name of John Howard Smith…Ph.D."

Another long silence ensued.

"I remembered one time, when the two of them were mountain climbing in the Spanish Alps. Jackie had stopped on this ledge, where the wind seemed to be blowing in all directions at once. She told Jack that, when she died, she wanted to be cremated so her ashes could be scattered from that ledge and then those four strong winds could blow her to the far corners of the earth.

Jack reminded her that, since Columbus' discovery, the earth no longer had corners. She told him that it didn't matter. She wanted to be blown there, anyway.

So, Dr. John H. Smith took a leave of absence, right in the middle of the term, to go mountain climbing in the Spanish Alps. I scattered Jackie's ashes into those four strong winds and then watched as she was blown to the far corners of the earth. All that had been Jack was swept away with her.

His empty shell went back to teaching Political Science at MIT. I'd probably still be there, if it weren't for Miss Melissa Placid."

Murdock's gravely solemn look gave way to one of curiosity, again. "Who's Melissa Placid?" he quietly inquired.

The Captain's question went unanswered.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

A car horn, or rather, a van horn snapped the Captain back to reality.

Murdock slowly turned his zombie-like gaze away from his open window, to glare at the van's driver, as he laid on his annoyingly loud horn one last time. "Must you do that?" he aristocratically inquired.

Baracus gave his passenger a quick, worried glance and was relieved to see that he'd finally gotten the little guy's attention. "Don' scare me like that, man! I was beginnin' to think you was dead. I don' like when you get all quiet like that. It's creepy! Make me feel like I'm drivin' a hearse. An' this ain' no hearse! So, look alive, sucker!"

But, Murdock looked like and replied like exactly how he felt like—one of the living dead. "I can't help it. I can't get my mind off a' the Colonel…"

The Sergeant shot the big kid, in the seat beside him, a sympathetic glance. B.A. liked kids—even big, crazy ones. "Open the glove compartment!"

Murdock hesitated.

"Go on! Open it!"

Murdock remained motionless and eyed the Sergeant suspiciously. "But, you sai—."

"—I know what I said! I said, 'Open it!', sucker!"

The Captain quickly opened the compartment, to which he'd formerly been forbidden entry, and stared disbelievingly down at his missing periscope. "Perry Scope!" he excitedly exclaimed, and his zombie-like expression was momentarily replaced by one of joy.

B.A. was forced to smile. "Go on, fool! Take your toy, there, an' go play 'Captain Nemo an' the Nautilus', or 'Voyages To The Bottom a' the Sea', or somethin'. Maybe it'll take what's lef' a' yer min' off a' Hannibal," he added, hopefully.

Murdock shot the Big Guy another suspicious glance and cautiously reached into the previously off limits compartment. The Captain snatched up his toy and then sat there, fondling it affectionately. "Oh, Perry! Perry! They told me you were dead," he declared and gave 'they' an annoyed glare.

The Sergeant shrugged. "So I exaggerated a little. He—it weren' dead, after all. He—it was jes' hidin' out in my glove compartment all these months. Now, go on! Git back there an' play with it! It'll do yah a world a good."

But, the big kid remained glued to his seat.

B.A. aimed a bewildered glance at his insubordinate, inanimate associate. "Yah haven' forgot how ta _play_, have yah?"

"No," Murdock calmly replied and peered back at the Big Guy through Perry. "And, I haven't forgot what you said you'd do to me, if I ever tried to turn your van into a submarine again, either."

"I was jes' teasin', man. You know I would never really drop a depth charge down yer hatch. Besides, these are extenuatin' circumstances. So, I'm makin' a special allowance, on accoun' a' how worried you are about Hannibal. Now, this is the Nautilus, sucker! An' you are Captain Nemo!" B.A. snatched the periscope back from Murdock and waved it menacingly in his face. "An' this is yer First Officer, Perry Scope! An' if you don' take him—it an' start distractin' yerself—THIS INSTANT—I'm gonna distract yah with it! An' then, I'm gonna show yah a new hidin' place fer it!"

"Di-ive! Di-ive" the Captain alarmedly exclaimed and quickly snatched his toy back.

Then he and his First Officer instantly took refuge in the back of the van—er, submarine.

The gallant submarine commander dove to the black carpeted floor beneath the vehicle's back window. "As long as we're here, we may as well take a look around. C'mon!" he urged, cranking his telescoping instrument into position. "Up, Perry Scope!" Murdock gave the blue, '82 Cutlass Supreme, trailing behind them, a gander.

But, the big kid's heart just wasn't into it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

In a modest, three-room apartment on the ground floor of the Hotel Regina, two people stood in stunned silence.

B.A. was right. Hannibal sure did 'soun' like his ol' self' on the recorded message on his answering machine. And, that was because it _was_ Hannibal's old self!

The Colonel could not believe his ears. So, he quickly rewound the tape, and had another listen.

" '_ey, B.A._," his recorded voice came across once more, with a heavy Spanish accent, "_Dees eez Mario from dee Barrio. Sometheens come up, monn. I got seex 'undred for dee job an' Meester Carpenter eez green wheeth envy. But I don' theenk dees Gringo eez crazy. So, we don' 'ave to worry about getteen fired. So long, monn…'click'_."

Another long bout of silence followed, as the pair remained dumbstruck.

The Colonel stared dazedly down at the answering device. Either he had made a phone call he didn't remember making…or someone's had B.A.'s phone tapped for the past three months…or he was hallucinating. He saw the puzzled look on his companion's pretty face and offered the girl his most reasonable explanation. "I must be _delirious_."

"No," Amy assured him. "I heard it, too. Hannibal, what does this mean?"

But the man with all the answers was more baffled than ever. The message's very existence defied logic. "I'm still working on the broader implications," he solemnly replied and hit the recorder's rewind button for a third time. "The content itself means: Mario wants B.A. to meet him someplace at six o'clock tonight. The Team's on a case. He doesn't have to bring Murdock with him. And, he doesn't have to expect trouble—" he stopped speaking as the tape finished rewinding and pressed the play button, to give the mind-boggling message another hearing. "I haven't been _Mario from dee Barrio_ in at least three mo—" he stopped again and then stood there, listening to a sound in the message's background. "Seagulls! I remember, now. I made this call from a pay phone at Marina Del Rey. I was trying to sell Miss Tamara Alton a kite. But, she ended up purchasing The A-Team, instead."

The message finished replaying.

Hannibal hit the stop button. Then he slid his wallet out and flipped his credit card portfolio open, to study the multi-colored coded message cards inside its plastic casings. "Green Mr. Carpenter is the alley behind the Occidental Import Company on Ocean Avenue." He stiffened, as something suddenly occurred to him. "If whoever's been eavesdropping knows that, then B.A. can expect big trouble! I haven't figured it all out, yet. But, this definitely smacks of a set up!" He needed to formulate a plan. Alas, he just couldn't seem to concentrate. The fever was obviously affecting his thought processing.

What a time to be sick!

He finished stashing the cards back into his wallet and his wallet back into his pocket, and started striding towards B.A.'s closet. "Call 345-4466, ask for extension 007 and find out if I have any messages." He gave his watch a quick glance and then pulled the portal open. "If B.A. did swing over to pick up Murdock, we may still get there in time."

The Colonel stepped into the closet's dark, cramped quarters and pulled a light on. "Better call Face and warn him, too. If you can't reach him, call Tawnia and tell her to keep trying." He slid a false wall panel out of his way and then stooped down, to pick up two very heavy, black plastic cases. He flicked both cases open first, and gave their contents a quick check. "Then, call KXLA Radio and tell Karen to start running the Perkins ad at five minute intervals, until the account runs out." Hannibal grabbed a few more cases, containing cartridge belts and clips.

Just as he was about to exit The A-Team's private armory, a rather frazzled-looking Amy appeared in the doorway.

"You didn't have any messages. Face still isn't home. Tawnia said she'd keep trying to reach him. And, Karen said she'd start running the ad—right away," the brunette breathlessly reported.

The Colonel flashed his 'calling machine' an appreciative smile. "Great! Now, let's hope they have their radios on." He passed the pretty miss a couple of his cases. "Let's go, kiddo!" he breathlessly invited.

The two heavily armed rescuers began lugging their heavy burdens towards the exit.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Amy's fingers froze, once again, on the key in her car's ignition. The girl aimed a deeply concerned gaze at the gray-haired guy in the seat beside her.

Lugging all those heavy cases around had definitely had a deleterious affect on Hannibal's already unhealthy health. Jazz, or no jazz, the Colonel now seemed totally unable to catch his breath.

"C'mon!…Let's go!" the guy laboring to breathe gasped. "Every second...counts!"

"I think it's time for you to take some more of this stuff," Amy suggested and passed her panting passenger the paper sack containing his prescribed medications.

Hannibal tossed the bag back up onto the dash. "I'm not swallowing…anymore…of Dr. Sandman's…sleeping potions!" he breathlessly declared. "Now…either get going…or let me drive!"

Amy quickly started her car up. It wouldn't do for somebody who couldn't even breathe, to try his hand at driving. "Which way?"

"Straight ahead," the Colonel directed, "'til you hit Wiltshire Boulevard...Then, hang a right…Hang another right…when you reach Crimson…and it'll take you…right onto Ocean."

Hannibal knew his way around LA better than a veteran cab driver.

So, the girl obediently pulled out into the street, and then headed straight down it.

"C'mon, Amy!…Step on it!…I told you…every second…counts!"

Amy pressed her foot down even harder on the accelerator. Her car responded with a sudden surge and a loud 'squea-eal' of its rear tires. The visiting foreign correspondent was glad that the heavy black plastic cases were locked out of sight, because they were bound to be pulled over for speeding.

Once the vehicle was up to speed, the Colonel concentrated on regulating the rate of his rapid, shallow respirations. He tried breathing through his nostrils. When that failed, he attempted to hold his breath again. Unfortunately, he no longer seemed to have any breath to hold. It eventually dawned on him that he was probably hyperventilating.

When Amy first saw Hannibal reaching for his prescriptions, she figured he must have changed his mind about taking them.

But then he dumped the medicine out and pressed the open end of the empty paper sack up snuggly over his nose and mouth.

And, the little lady figured he must have _lost_ his mind. "What are you doing?" she nervously inquired.

Hannibal cracked the sack's seal, so he could reply. "The amount of CO2…in your bloodstream…has a direct bearing…on your respiration rate," he explained. Then he gasped, and quickly resealed the gap.

"Of course!" Miss Allen sarcastically stated. "Everyone knows tha-at."

Hannibal lowered the sack, to reveal the slight, sad smile that had been hiding behind it. "I'm sorry…I was so short with you earlier…But, you've got to understand…The Team's in the middle…of a major crisis here…We can't afford to waste time…and I can't afford to go 'beddie-bye'." The Colonel finished his apology, promptly replaced the paper bag and then continued to breathe into it.

Amy could find nothing to smile about. "Yeah? Well, I'd probably be a lot more 'understanding', right now, if we were headed for an Intensive Care Unit, and not the _Gunfight at the O.K. Corral_!"

The little lady's comment caused the Colonel's slight smile to reappear. Hannibal had only known two other women, in the whole world, who could match Amy Amanda Allen's ability for biting satire and bitter sarcasm.

He didn't allow himself to think of the first one.

But, the memory of the other, he allowed to linger awhile longer in his feverish mind. 'Miss Melissa Placid…'

Their first meeting had been anything but 'placid'.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Dr. John Howard Smith stood alone in his bedroom. The handsome, thirty-six-year-old college professor was unpacking.

He'd just returned from an unscheduled trip to Europe, where he'd taken part in a one-man mountain-climbing expedition up Monte Viso Pass, in the Spanish Alps.

His impeccably groomed and dressed body was still suffering from the tremendous physical strain of his recent ordeal. The dark circles under his expressive blue eyes reflected the tremendous emotional strain he'd been under lately, as well.

He finished unpacking and slid the closet door open, to put his luggage away. He stood there, staring at the empty rack where his wife's wardrobe used to hang. He felt even emptier than that space looked…and it looked unbearably empty.

'It would probably be a good idea, to sell this big, empty house,' he thought and made a mental note to call a realtor and begin apartment hunting.

The front doorbell chimed.

Dr. Smith headed off to answer it. Along the way, he made another mental note to be sure to call Caroline and thank her for taking care of Jackie's things for him, while he was away.

The professor reached the entryway and pulled the heavy portal open.

A tall, very attractive, dark-haired young lady with a slender figure and piercing, jet-black eyes appeared.

He recognized the eyes and smiled. "Miss _Placid_, isn't it?" he inquired of his uninvited guest.

The girl seemed surprised to be recognized and even more surprised to have finally found the errant professor home. "Did you take any elephants with you?"

Dr. Smith gave the young woman a strange stare. "I beg your pardon?"

"Elephants," the little lady calmly repeated. "When Hannibal crossed the Alps into Spain, he took along some elephants. And, around Campus, you're sort a' considered to be a modern-day Hannibal. So, I was just wondering if you had taken any elephants with _you_, when _you_ crossed the Alps?"

"You must be kidding," the modern-day Hannibal lightly replied. "This time of year, I couldn't even get a guide to go along with me. Besides, since the elephants have gone union, they won't work for frozen peanuts, anymore."

The professor's light-hearted remarks caused the girl's lovely smile to broaden into a grin.

Dr. Smith returned her grin, but then suddenly turned all business-like again. "Now, what can I do for you, Miss Placid? It _is_ Miss Placid, isn't it?"

The young lady nodded. "Melissa Placid, Dr. Smith. I was in your first period 111C Lecture Hall last term: Imperialism—Past and Present."

"Yes. I know. I recognized your eyes. You were one of the few students who kept them open for me," he lightly explained and flashed the pretty miss another slight smile.

His smile put Miss Placid at ease and gave her the courage to continue. "Well, I was wondering if I could speak to you about something terribly import—"

Dr. Smith immediately signaled for her to stop.

She immediately did.

The homeowner turned to a wooden stand, just inside the door, picked up an Academic Handbook put out by the Registrar's Office, flipped it open to a page bearing a bookmark, and began to read aloud from it. "Responsibilities of the Instructional Staff section A, paragraph 5: All instructional staff members, whose responsibilities involve students, shall schedule a reasonable number of office hours for student conferences. Office hours shall be scheduled at times convenient to both students and instructors, with the additional option of prearranged appointments for students, when there is a schedule conflict. The number of office hours is to be determined at the appropriate administrative level and office hours should be a matter of common knowledge."

Dr. Smith stopped reading and flashed the frowning female another slight smile. "Actually, I know it by heart. But, I like to read it right from the rulebook. That way, my students can see that I'm not just making it all up."

He set the rulebook down and picked a small business card up from a stack setting on the same stand. "My office hours are common knowledge, Miss Placid. But, just to refresh your memory," he held the card up in front of her pretty, pouting face and pointed to the information printed below his name and position with the university. "You can find me in the College of Social Sciences complex, Political Science Dept., PLS720—303 South Bradley Hall, between the hours of 1 and 3 p.m., on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. And, you can phone me at 355-6590 for a prearranged appointment."

He passed her the card and flashed her one, final smile. "I'm really looking forward to our conference, Miss Placid. Good day," he concluded and began closing the door on her.

But, the young lady was determined. "Please, Dr. Smith? This is terribly important! It can't wait for an appointment!"

The professor poked his head around the door, to give the girl a look of deep skepticism. "I'm afraid it will have to, Miss Placid. I do not entertain students in my home. Especially not very young, very attractive, _female_ students. It's ba-ad for my reputation," he explained and continued to close the door on her.

She held it open, with her hand. "Well, I don't have to come in. You could come out. We could go for a walk. I promise I won't keep you long…"

Dr. Smith studied the long, delicate fingers, which this unbelievably determined student had draped around the edge of his front door, and managed another smile. He admired determined individuals. And, getting out of the big, empty house for awhile, just might do him some good.

The fingers withdrew and Miss Placid reappeared, as the professor slowly pulled the heavy portal back open. He saw that she seemed overjoyed by his acceptance of her proposal.

Dr. Smith joined the pretty miss on his front porch and the two of them started strolling towards the sidewalk, which ran in front of his home.

"I've been trying to reach you, to make an appointment—all week," Melissa explained, as they walked along. "I'm really sorry…about your wife," she added, softly.

Dr. Smith quickly changed the subject. "Well, Miss Placid, what's so important that it couldn't wait?"

"You know that lecture that you gave us last term, where you deliberately led us to believe you were discussing the political scene in Southeast Asia, and then suddenly announced that you were actually discussing the series of events which led up to the American Revolution?"

"Yes." The professor's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Sneaky, wasn't it."

"Yes, it was…very sneaky. But, more importantly, it was effective…very effective. I mean, it really got us thinking! And, that's why I'm here, today. I've come to ask a favor. You see, I'm convinced that if other people could hear your lecture, they'd wake up from their apathy and start thinking, too!" Miss Placid paused, to drum up the remainder of her courage. "Dr. Smith, I'm here to ask you to _please_ give your lecture at our anti-war rally, to be held on the front steps of the Student Union building, tomorrow afternoon, starting at two o'clock." The girl suddenly realized that her guest lecturer was no longer walking beside her.

The professor had ground to halt quite a ways back. He just stood there on the sidewalk, staring at her in disbelief.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Dr. Smith regained enough of his composure to be able to speak. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible, Miss Placid."

But the very determined young lady remained undaunted. "Anything's possible, Professor. Plea-ease? Say you'll help us out?" she begged.

Dr. Smith saw the pitiful, pleading, desperate look on the pretty girl's face and sighed in frustration. "The University discourages the members of its faculty from 'actively participating in unpopular political rallies'."

"Another quote from the rulebook?" Melissa sarcastically inquired.

"An interdepartmental memo," he corrected, "designed to discourage the making of unpopular political waves."

The girl gasped in exasperation. "Dr. Smith, I'm not asking you to join the Weathermen! All I'm asking is for you to come and share a little of your time and knowledge with us…"

"My classes are always open to visitors. Why don't you and your friends drop in on _me_? I'd be more than happy to repeat my lecture on American Imperialism for you."

"There isn't a lecture hall on this campus that could hold the crowd we're expecting tomorrow."

"Well, then I'll give you my notes and you can give the lecture, yourself."

"We don't need your notes. I took extensive 'notes'. We need _you_, Dr. Smith! People will pay attention to what you have to say because they figure a guy who holds a bachelor's degree in Social Science and a doctoral degree in Political Science must know what he's talking about. I'm just a graduate student. They'd never listen to me. Please? Don't just stand around, marking time, like everyone else. Come and march with us! It's like the songwriter says: 'How many deaths will it take 'til we know that too many people have died?' Perhaps none of the young men at the rally tomorrow will ever have to make THE choice. Perhaps none of them will ever be drafted. But if any of them ever are, and they do have to make a decision…Please? Help them to make an educated one. Too many brave young men have already died."

"Believe me, Miss Placid. I'd like to help. But, you don't know what you're asking. My position with the University is at stake."

It was the girl's turn to stare at him in disbelief. "People's lives are at stake here and all you're worried about is your stupid job?"

But then, she couldn't know that his 'stupid job'…was all that Dr. Smith had left in the world.

Melissa fought back the tears that were threatening in her blurring, dark eyes. "I don't claim to know as much as you do, Professor. But, I know one thing. If my brother, Brian, could have heard your lecture, I'm sure he would have chosen differently…instead of throwing his life away over there…fighting for a cause he couldn't even understand, let alone, believe in!" her shaking voice cracked and the tears she'd been battling back began to fall.

Dr. Smith stepped up to the sobbing girl and gave her a deeply sympathetic look. The professor placed his hands on her shaking shoulders, in an attempt to offer her some small comfort.

Melissa rushed into his open arms, buried her face in his chest and had a good, hard cry.

At long last, the torrent of tears terminated. Miss Placid sniffled and drew back from their compromising embrace.

The professor pulled a clean tissue from the pocket of his cardigan and offered it to her.

Miss Placid accepted it and began dabbing at her puffy, damp, darker-than-ever eyes. "I'm sorry," she coldly proclaimed, between sniffles, "I thought that you would do more than just 'talk' politics. But, I was wrong about you. You don't practice outside the classroom what you preach inside the classroom. You're a hypocrite…just like all the rest. And, as long as you are safe and secure, it doesn't matter what happens to the young men who are being drafted and sent over there. The dying will just go on…and on…and on," she swallowed hard and then held her quivering chin up. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your precious time, Professor Smith. Good day!" she snidely tacked on and began walking off.

"Wait up, Miss Placid!" Dr. Smith called after her.

Melissa obligingly halted, but refused to face him.

"I can't _promise_ you anything. But, if I can come up with some kind of an insurance policy to protect my position, I'll be there tomorrow…with bells on!" the Ph.D. assured the persuasive young lady.

Miss Placid spun back around. The deliriously happy girl then ran up to the professor and threw herself into his arms again. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Dr. Smith!"

"Don't thank me, yet, Miss Placid. I haven't done anything…yet," he pulled back from her rather compromising embrace and glanced around. "Do you have a car?"

"I walked. Why?"

"We can take mine," Dr. Smith announced and started striding off in the direction of his driveway.

"We can? Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to dinner, Miss Placid. I like to eat while I'm thinking. I do my best thinking while I'm eating. And, I hate to eat alone."

Melissa remained silent. She didn't know what to say.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Dr. Smith sat in a wooden booth in the darkest corner of a cozy little candlelit restaurant, just a couple of blocks from the university's campus.

Miss Placid was seated directly across from him.

Melissa hated to eat alone, too. And, as poor a company as a _thinking Dr. Smith_ was, she may as well have been eating alone. Her 'date' hadn't said a single word through their entire meal.

"Would you care for some more wine?" the professor suddenly pondered.

The girl jerked, startled by the sound of his voice. "Yes, thank you," she replied and held her long-stemmed glass out to him.

He refilled both their glasses and then set the empty bottle down in the center of the table. "I think I've got it," he continued, sounding somewhat devious.

"Got what?" Melissa nervously inquired.

"A way for me to give my lecture without getting canned. I'll get the Dean of the College of Social Sciences to okay a request for a field trip, and then I'll hold my 'Classic Political Thought' class on the front steps of the Student Union building." Dr. Smith sat there, staring into his wineglass and wearing a smile of deep satisfaction on his candlelit face. "And, if a large number of university students just _happen_ to listen in, they will hear me giving my students a lecture on American Imperialism." He glanced up at the girl and his smile broadened into smug grin. "Sneaky, huh."

Melissa stared wonderingly across at the remarkably handsome, incredibly sneaky professor for a few moments and then smiled herself. "I'm glad that I was wrong about being wrong about you."

Dr. Smith lowered his eyes and gazed sadly into his glass again. "You weren't entirely wrong about being wrong about me," he quietly confessed. "I'm not a marcher. I've never been naïve enough to think that I could change the world. I've had to be content with changing the minds of my students, instead. I guess I'm more of a drum major. I abhor ignorance. That's why I love my work. Doctor is Latin for teacher, you know. I try to teach my students to march…to be marchers. And, yet, I don't march myself.

Sometimes, we teachers forget that our students learn more from the examples we set for them, than from the lectures we give to them." He glanced back up. "So…tomorrow afternoon, I hope to set one fine example. And, by this time tomorrow, I shall be a reformed hypocrite." The gentleman grinned again and raised his glass. "And, hopefully, a still employed professor," he tacked on, beneath his breath.

But Miss Placid caught the comment and failed to join him in his toast. The girl could find nothing to toast, or smile, about. She wished, now, that she'd never come to him, or said all those cruel things to him. Dr. Smith's job was most definitely not 'stupid', and, what was at stake, was his whole life!

He had taught her to march. And, if she got him fired, who would teach others to be marchers? "I've been thinking, Dr. Smith and…well…maybe you shouldn't risk losing your job, after all. I mean, drum majors are important, too. They direct the marchers."

The professor set his drained glass down and gazed at the girl in confusion. "Are you saying that you no longer want me to give my lecture at your anti-war rally tomorrow?"

"I want you to give your lecture. I just don't want you to lose your job."

"I don't want me to lose my job, either. That's why I just spent the past forty-five minutes devising an ingenious little plan that will, hopefully, keep me from marching into the unemployment line." Dr. Smith summoned their waiter over and slid his wallet out, to settle up their dinner tab. "Sorry we can't stay for dessert, Miss Placid. But, I'd better get you home. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and, right now, I'm suffering from a terminal case of jet lag." He replaced his billfold and began getting wearily to his feet.

Melissa slid gracefully out of their booth.

Dr. Smith took her arm and started escorting her toward the door.

Miss Placid's frown deepened. "You're still planning on coming then?"

"I gave you my word, didn't I?"

"Yes. But, I won't hold you to it anymore." She pulled the professor to a stop, just as they reached the exit, and then turned to face him. "I can't stand the thought of me being responsible for you losing your position with the University. You were right, Dr. Smith. I didn't understand what was at stake. But, I do now. And it wasn't fair for me to ask you to gamble when the stakes were so high."

"You were right, too, Miss Placid. The stakes are high—all the way around. I believe your actions today were totally justified. I believe that my presence at your rally tomorrow is equally justified. Though, I do _not_ share your delusions of grandeur. One man can _not_ change the whole system, and I am just one man."

Melissa's determined attitude returned and she flashed the gallant fellow a beautiful, confident smile. "So was Hannibal. And, just look at what _he_ accomplished!"

The pretty crusader's confident comments caused the modern-day Hannibal to return her smile.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Melissa Placid paced anxiously up and down the hall outside the Assistant Dean of Academic Affairs office.

After what seemed like hours, the door finally swung open and Dr. Smith joined her there, in the hallway.

The pretty miss halted in mid-pace. "Well?"

The professor stood silently for a few moments, looking terribly serious and solemn. But then, a broad, confident grin began to creep across his face. He gave his head a quick shake and then triumphantly exclaimed, "I _love_ it, when a plan comes together!"

Melissa stared disbelievingly back him. "You mean, they didn't give you your walking papers?"

"Na-ah. All they could give me, were dirty looks." Dr. Smith took the pretty crusader's arm and began escorting her off down the hall. "How did the rest of the rally go? I was summoned away shortly after I completed my lecture."

It was Miss Placid's turn to look and sound triumphant. "It went great! Thanks to you! We estimate that close to two thousand 'guest' students sat in on your 5th period class. We got over twelve hundred signatures on our student petition!"

She shot the star of their rally a quick sideways glance and saw that he seemed genuinely happy for her. "How did it really go in there? I can't believe all they gave you were dirty looks. They must have had something to 'say' about all of this."

They reached the elevator.

He hit the down button. "They said they'd let me off with a warning, this time—a week's suspension. They said that, if I ever pulled anything like this again, I would be 'dismissed immediately'.

And, when I reminded them that the contents of Course No. 170 were approved by both the University's Curriculum Committee and the Academic Council, they said that didn't matter, in the least. If I ever give my lecture on American Imperialism again, I'll be 'dismissed'."

The elevator doors slid open and the pair stepped inside.

The professor pressed **G**. "I asked them if that meant giving it in or out of the classroom," he continued, as they started to descend. "They said, both. I reminded them that there is nothing in the rulebook that says I can't give my lecture. They said, that didn't matter, in the least. I still couldn't give it. I asked, why not? They said, because they said so. When I told them that wasn't a good enough reason, they suspended me for another week, as a 'disciplinary measure'."

The elevator stopped and its doors slid open.

"They can't do that!" Miss Placid angrily declared, as the pair stepped out onto the ground floor of the Registrar's building. "Can they?"

"I haven't broken any of their rules…yet. And, if that really doesn't matter, in the least, then I have not yet begun to march!" Dr. Smith icily stated and started marching off down the hall, heading for the exit.

Melissa remained quiet and close to his side.

"I can tolerate ignorant people, because I know there's always a chance they can be educated out of their ignorance," the irate teacher went on. "But, I can't stand supposedly educated people who make up 'rules' and then choose to ignore them."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning, that I have decided to keep marching. In fact, I'm going to march over to the Faculty Review Board right now and demand a hearing to have my suspensions revoked That ought to start making things 'matter' to them." The professor stopped in mid stride and turned to the pretty miss at his side. "It was great rallying with you, Miss Placid. Keep in touch. Oh, and…give my regards to your brother Brian," he concluded, rather shrewdly.

The pretty little lady looked stunned…then a bit queasy…and then terribly guilty. "How'd you find out?" she sheepishly inquired.

"An old Army buddy of mine punches computer cards in the basement of the Pentagon. I had him run a little check on Specialist 5th Class, Brian Placid, for me. Turns out he's Company Clerk for the 47th Transport Division, 64th Quartermasters Battalion stationed at Long Binh Post, and he hasn't 'cashed it in', because he's still cashing in his pay checks."

Brian's big sister stood there, cowering. "Well, I didn't actually come right out and say that Brian was **dead**," she finally mumbled in her defense.

"True. But, you did deliberately mislead me into thinking that he was."

The girl looked guilty as charged and hung her pretty head in shame. "When did you find out?"

"I suspected it immediately. But, I couldn't be sure. That's why I had Zach run the check for me. He phoned, last night, with the results."

Melissa looked up at him in complete confusion. "If you felt I was misleading you all along, and found this all out last night…Why did you still agree to help us? You could've lost your job."

"Because I'm a real sucker for a skirt with a sob story, Miss Placid. I can't help myself. It's one of the few flaws in my otherwise flawless character. Besides, while your tactics may have been tacky, I certainly couldn't fault you for your determination. You are a very worthy crusader for a very worthy cause. And, you obviously have learned from my example, as well as from my lectures," he reasoned, with a wry smile. "Your methods were both sneaky a-and effective."

"Very effective," Melissa quickly corrected, and flashed the prof' back a grin.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

One move and three months of marching later, Dr. Smith stood alone in the bedroom of his apartment.

The handsome, thirty-six-year-old college professor was packing a suitcase.

He'd just returned from his last meeting—of many clandestine meetings—with Colonel Zachary Morrison, the computer card puncher from the basement of the Pentagon.

Jack had served with Zach in Korea. The two of them had jousted a few windmills, together.

When Jack told Zach that he wanted to joust a few more windmills in Vietnam, the Colonel had 'arranged' things, so that his friend could do just that.

"I won't forget this, Zach," the ex-professor had promised, as the two old comrades in arms parted.

"I just hope you won't regret this, Jack," Morrison had solemnly replied.

Smith figured he probably would.

But, it was too late to turn back now. His impeccably groomed self was already wearing the spit and polished shoes, freshly pressed slacks and silver cluster insignia'd shirt of a United States Army Special Forces Lt. Colonel's uniform. His matching green beret, coat and tie were laid out on the bed beside his open suitcase.

Suddenly, his door buzzer sounded.

He paused in his packing, to press the stop button on the portable cassette tape player on his dresser. The polished voice spewing Vietnamese phrases halted in mid-spew. "It's open!" he called out the bedroom doorway and returned to his packing. He only had twenty minutes to get to the airport, or he'd miss his all expenses paid trip to Southeast Asia.

"Dr. Smith?" Melissa Placid's voice rang through his living room.

"In here, Melissa!" he called back over his shoulder and kept right on packing.

Moments later, Miss Placid appeared in the bedroom doorway. She saw the professor was packing and her cheery demeanor crumbled. "Moving to another apartment? Or, leaving town entirely?" she nervously inquired.

"My lecture got such rave reviews here, I thought I'd take it on the road," he lightly replied and turned toward his dresser mirror, to put on his tie.

Melissa's dark eyes clouded with anxiety. "You are going to be back in time to march on Washington with us next weekend," she stated, hopefully. "We've already got the buses chartered and places to stay, while we're in D.C.. We want you to present our petitions to Congress."

Smith finished adjusting his tie and started reaching for his jacket. "I'm sorry, Melissa. But, I'm afraid you'll have to march without me, this time." He pulled his uniform coat on and then snatched up his green beret. "I have a previous commitment," he added and proudly placed the hat on his silver-haired head.

The girl stared at the Special Forces commando, who was now in full uniform, looking stunned out of her gourd. "What? Is this some kind of a joke or something?"

"…or something," the Ph.D. admitted, under his breath. Then he pulled his shoulders back and stood there, at attention. "Lt. Colonel, John 'Hannibal' Smith," he proudly introduced. "United States Army Special Combat Division, 5th Special Forces Group, stationed at Pleiku, South Vietnam, reporting for duty, Miss Placid."

Several long seconds of stunned silence followed the Lt. Colonel's 'introduction'.

Finally, Melissa found her voice. "You telling me that this is legit?" She stepped up to her old prof', to give his attire a closer scrutinization. "This is really on the level?" she re-inquired and circled him a few times, eyeing his uniformed self up, from top to bottom.

'My first inspection," he thought. Then, his face scrunched up a bit and his brow furrowed. "I couldn't tell you that, because John 'Hannibal' Smith is only a figment on a few dozen forms, who got his commission out of some computer's altered memory banks."

The girl was stunned out of her gourd once again. "B-But, why-y?"

"I feel that I can accomplish more by marching on Saigon, than on Washington. It's like Thoreau said: 'If I do not keep step with my companions, it is because I hear a different drummer. Let a man step to the music he hears, however measured or however far away.' Your drums are leading you to Washington and my drums are leading me to Nam. The important thing is that we're both still marching. Who knows? Maybe together…with all our combined marching…maybe we _can_ end the madness a little sooner…before too many more brave young men have to die."

Another long, solemn silence ensued, as Melissa remained at a loss for words.

"Hey...Relax...I'm going there to wage peace, not war," the ex-professor assured his former student.

But, Miss Placid still didn't know what to say.

Smith stiffened and glanced at his watch. "I'd better get going. It wouldn't do for me to be AWOL, my first day on the job." He started reaching for his suitcase, but then suddenly remembered something. "Oh, I'll be visiting Brian's Unit, in Nam. Is there anything you'd like me to pass along to him for you?"

The girl's dark eyes moistened. She threw herself up into his arms and gave him a big hug and kiss.

The Lt. Colonel looked pleasantly surprised. "I'll just tell him you send him your love," he reasoned, safely.

Miss Placid pulled back. "No. That was for you," she quietly confessed.

'Must be the uniform,' Smith silently reasoned.

"This is for Brian," the pretty miss pointed out, just prior to kissing and hugging him again.

The ex-professor was even more pleasantly surprised. But then he quickly sobered. "Uhhh, Melissa…It would be best if we could keep all this our little secret. If word ever gets out that I'm really just a teacher…well, it'll ruin my _imagined_ image." He had no idea what the penalty was for impersonating an officer, and he'd like to stay ignorant on that particular subject, hopefully, forever!

Melissa flashed him a sad smile. "Saying you're 'just a teacher' is like saying Hannibal was 'just a general'. Her countenance suddenly turned even sadder. "I just realized something. We'll be marching for you, too, now, Dr. Smith."

"Uh, _Hannibal_, remember?"

"Hannibal," she softly repeated. "Please be careful?" she pleaded and gave him a final embrace. "They have a tendency to ignore the rules over there, too."

'Hannibal' stared down at the lovely young lady, who had thrown herself into his arms for the third time in as many minutes. "Must be the uniform," he repeated, this time aloud. "I've heard it has this affect on women," he confessed with a sad smile of his own making.

His comments caused the girl's smile to broaden. "I'm glad you called," she admitted and pulled back again. "I would've never forgiven you, if we hadn't had this chance to say goodbye."

"Actually," Smith nervously began, "we don't have to say goodbye just yet. I sold my car this morning. Do you think you could give me a lift to the airport?"

Suddenly, Melissa knew the real reason she had been summoned. "Sneaky."

'Hannibal' snatched his suitcase from the bed and his tape recorder from the dresser and began heading for the doorway. "But, effective…" he slyly added.

The two marchers then swapped their sad smiles for a pair of slightly devious grins.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Hannibal was still smiling behind the cover of his white paper sack.

'Miss Melissa Placid…' Their first meeting may have been a might stormy. But, their last encounter had been pleasant enough…very pleasant, indeed! Melissa Placid was a very special young lady…a lot like Miss Amy Allen.

The A-Team's Commander snapped back to reality and glanced at his watch. It was now seven minutes to six.

"Which way do I turn onto Ocean?" Miss Allen inquired of her passenger/navigator.

Hannibal lowered the sack so he could speak. "Left. The Occidental Import Company is ten blocks down, on the right. Turn right at the corner of Ocean and Pearson," he added and went to replace his breathing bag. But, his respirations had returned to near normal, all things considered. So, he tossed the bag back up onto the dashboard, instead.

His head seemed to be somewhat clearer, as well. It was amazing what a little oxygen could do. Something suddenly occurred to the now clear thinker, which caused him to grimace and then groan aloud, in mental anguish.

"What's the matter?" the girl wondered, and gave the groaner a quick, anxious glance.

"I **must** be _delirious_!"

"Why?"

"I had you place those calls from B.A.'s apartment."

"So?"

"So-o, his phone is probably still tapped. The whole place was probably bugged!"

"So?"

"So, if they didn't know where Mario and B.A. were going to meet before, they do no-ow! They also have the number of my answering service and know about the Perkins ad." He spotted a phone booth. "Pull over, Amy!" he ordered, and she did.

He got quickly out of the car, hurried around to the driver's side and pulled the girl's door open. "I want you to call 345-4466 again and tell extension no. 007 to abort. Then call Karen and make sure she's still running the ad!"

Amy reluctantly allowed herself to be ushered out of her car. "Where will you be?"

"I've got to get to that alley!" he anxiously explained and slid quickly in behind the wheel. "You can catch a cab, when you finish calling," he proposed and passed her purse out his open window.

Miss Allen winced, as Hannibal floored the accelerator and went squealing back out into the street. The girl then closed her gaping mouth and began heading, obediently, for the phone booth.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

It was now midmorning and a blazing sun bore down on the compound.

Captain Murdock and Colonel Smith were still hanging out on the 'clothesline' in their own private little quadrangle of the war, and still distracting each other with stimulating conversation.

The good Captain gazed across at his companion, looking completely confused. "So, if the Faculty Review Board cleared you of all charges…and if you never broke any of their rules…then, why _were_ you 'dismissed'?"

"Remember when I told you that facts speak for themselves?"

The pilot nodded.

"Well, turns out that money talks, too…and a whole lot louder. Several of the University's wealthier alumni were against having the facts surrounding the Vietnam War made public.

By some strange coincidence, these guys just happened to be on the Boards of Directors of corporations holding huge Defense contracts. These very wealthy people made it perfectly clear that they were not going to continue to contribute to a University that would allow some 'commie' Political Science professor to undermine a person's urge to fight and die for their country…and the coffers of the greedy corporations contained therein," the Colonel satirically tacked on. "I could have stayed and fought it. But, it would have been a tremendous waste of time and energy. So, I decided to come here and fight this, instead."

The Captain remained confused. "What do you mean, Colonel?"

"This," Hannibal repeated and motioned with his head to their surroundings, "and every other aspect of this stinking, immoral war. I mean, I figured, what better place to try to stop all the killing and destruction, than the place where all the killing and destruction is going on.

So, while Melissa and the others are back home, trying to cut it off at its source…I'm over here, doing what little I can, to try to contain it on this end." A smile of deep satisfaction appeared on his feverish, unshaven face. "And my Special Forces Group and I were containing it quite nicely," his smile faded fast, "until my gun jammed.

To think, I owe this all to a defective weapon…probably built in one of those wealthy alumni's defense plants. The ultimate irony…they get me 'dismissed' over here, too.

The price they charge the government for those guns, you'd think they could at least guarantee them not to fail in the middle of a fire fight."

"What fire fight was that, Colonel?"

The Captain's delirious companion licked his dry, cracked lips and continued, "This time, Custer sent his troops into the middle of a free fire zone, where three platoons of VC were dug in with their mortars.

Then, some Nim' under him called in an air strike.

By the time the brass had sorted out the good guys from the bad guys, and friendly fire from unfriendly fire, Charlie had the troops cut off and was keeping them pinned down with heavy mortar fire.

Custer's problem was that now he couldn't call in anymore artillery or air strikes without blowing away his own men.

That's when they rang our bell.

You see, our little Special Forces Group had many talents. But, getting guys out of sticky situations, and saving Custer's butt, was sort of our 'specialty'.

Only, this time, it would've taken a _transporter_ to get them outta there. Custer had really outdone himself, this time.

But, we agreed to give it our best shot, anyway.

The plan was for Meade and Williams to set up a heavy smoke screen. While, Yates and I drew Charlie's fire on the left flank.

This diversionary tactic would give the guys a chance to break through and make it to the cover of the woods.

Once the troops were out of the line of fire, another air strike would be called in, to provide us all with some cover while we withdrew to safer soil."

"So, what went wrong with that plan?"

"Nothing. It went off without a single hitch—until my gun jammed. That cut our firepower in half. And, Yates and I had diverted a whole lot more of Charlie's attention than we had originally intended to.

But, we still could have held them off long enough for the airstrike to come in and back us up, if that stupid gun hadn't jammed…"

"What happened after that?"

"We split up and split out.

I had a whole Viet Cong platoon panting down the back of my neck and only a few rounds left in my service revolver…when I heard the planes fly over.

Some of Charlie's bullets were coming uncomfortably close by then and I realized that I could either play dead or be dead. So, I decided to play dead.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up six feet underground, bound and blindfolded, with a really ba-ad headache.

I ended up taking the 'subway' to Hanoi. No trains. All travel is done by foot, in Charlie's subways. I averaged 3 mpk. Three miles per kick."

"I got 8 mpk," the Captain proudly announced. "We newer models get better mileage," he teased with a grin.

The Colonel grinned and then started coughing again. This time, he coughed so hard, he nearly blacked out. And, it took him an incredibly long time to regain his composure.

Captain Murdock hung there, helplessly, wearing a deep, foreboding frown.

The Colonel's condition was rapidly deteriorating. And it was already dangerously deteriorated _before_ the loss of appetite, high fever, chills, bad headache and coughing spells came along.

"Who is 'Custer'?" the kid inquired, anxious to take his delirious companion's mind off his 'troubles'.

Hannibal swallowed hard. His mouth was almost too dry to speak…almost. "After the Civil War, the U.S. Army could once again turn its full attention to 'Indian Fighting'. By which means, they hoped to annihilate whole tribes of 'savage' 'red-skinned' people…and thus clear the way for 'decent' 'white-skinned' people to take over the 'red-skinned' peoples' lands.

The so-called 'Indian Uprisings' were merely attempts by these 'red-skinned' people to keep their lands from being stolen and their families from being murdered.

I mean, is it any wonder that these 'savages' should try to resist?

The U.S. Army declares open season on them, and what is their terrible crime? Why, they are _in the way_. Can you appreciate the inhumanity of that, Captain?"

"I didn't mean _that_ Custer, Colon—"

"—General George Armstrong Custer was one of, if not THE most notorious 'Indian Fighters' of all time.

Now, the Sioux, Cheyenne, Crow and other Plains Indians had resigned themselves to having their ancestral lands stolen out from under them and they had made another treaty with the treaty-breaking white man.

Insatiable greed eventually led the 'decent' white folk to break this treaty, as well.

Gold prospectors and miners flocked into Indian Territory to take it over.

It was Custer's job to protect railway surveyors and gold miners from any Sioux that might get in their way.

After three years of intermittent annihilation of the Sioux, the Army devised a plan to wipe them all out, in one fell swoop.

General Terry, Alfred Terry, and all his 'Indian Fighters', were going to attack their unwitting prey from three different sides and snuff them right out, once and for all.

General Terry ordered General Custer to scout ahead.

And, while doing so, Custer happened upon a whole passel of Sioux, peacefully encamped on the east bank of the Little Big Horn River.

Greatly underestimating the amount of 'red-skinned' people that were contained in this very large passel, and being overly anxious to begin the snuffing out of them, Custer ordered his regiment to attack.

The Sioux defended themselves.

Custer and 264 of his fellow 'Indian Fighters', being hopelessly outnumbered, made their infamous 'Last Stand'.

Of course now, the history books say they were massacred.

Interesting, isn't it.

When the treaty-breaking, trespassing 'white' man did the snuffing out, it was called 'Manifest Destiny' and 'the advancement of civilization'.

And, when the 'red' man did it, it was called a massacre, by a bunch of 'butchering, heathen savages'.

It's like I said before, Captain. Everything is _relative_.

The Vietnamese are the Sioux, here. They're _in the way._

The Americans are Custer and his troops, trying to drive the Sioux off their native lands, or snuffing them out.

And, so, the Sioux are trying to defend themselves and their land.

History keeps repeating itself, Captain.

The reaction of the American Colonies to British Imperialism was the American Revolution—the Revolutionary War.

The reaction of the American Indians to American Imperialism was the 'Indian Uprisings'—the 'Indian Wars'.

The Vietnamese peoples' reaction to, first French, then Japanese, then French again and now American Imperialism, is the Vietnamese Revolution—the Vietnam War.

These subject peoples are just sick and tired of being coerced and exploited by Imperialist countries.

You can only push people so far before they start pushing back.

Imperialism is a national policy by a super-state, which uses high sounding ideals as a cover up for the super-states real motives behind their dealings with subject peoples.

Example: The super-state tells the subject peoples that it means to establish justice and peace under a rule of equality and rational law. While, in reality, the super-state is actually practicing coercion and exploitation of the subject peoples.

Coercion means to restrain or govern by force.

First, the French governed Vietnam by force, then, the Japanese. Then, the French tried to take it over again and finally, the Americans came in and picked up where the French left off.

The American Imperialists set up and backed up a string of 'puppet' governments, beginning with a ruthless dictator by the name of Ngo Dinh Diem—right up to the present, General Thieu.

The billions of dollars of American aide to South Vietnam only succeeded in corrupting 98 percent of the puppet government's officials.

You asked, awhile back: What are we doing here?

Well, Captain, we owe it all to JFK. We're all here and 200,000 South Vietnamese soldiers, close to 400,000 innocent civilians, 900,000 North Vietnamese and 45,000 patriotic young Americans are all dead, because John Fitzgerald Kennedy believed in the 'Domino Theory' of the Truman-Eisenhower Administration.

Kennedy believed that, if you didn't fight communism in Southeast Asia, you'd have to fight it in California.

Kennedy's Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamera, saw where Kennedy was leading the nation and warned that 'we would almost certainly become increasingly mired down in an inconclusive struggle'. He said the U.S. should make a clear and total commitment to South Vietnam and achieve an immediate military victory, or stay the hell out.

Kennedy ignored him.

It didn't matter that the Vietnamese people had never _had_ a democracy, like the U.S. has—or that they didn't even _want_ a democracy, like ours. Kennedy was going to shove the American Dream down their throats, anyway.

He sent in 16,000 token troops and ordered the CIA to carry out various clandestine sabotage operations, in Laos, and North and South Vietnam, directed against Ho Chi Minh's legitimate government, the Democratic Republic of Viet Nam."

The ex-professor paused in his narrative and his tired, squinting eyes became filled with an unbearable sadness. "There seldom is a 'right' side in a war, Captain. One side is usually just less 'wrong' than the other.

The American Imperialists' presence in this country is morally, ethically, socially, politically, and every other conceivable way-edly, the most wrong of all. And, some day…the history books will print the _truth_ about what the decent white folk…did to the Sioux…" The Colonel suddenly remembered something. "Custer is the guy who yells 'Cha-arge!'" he explained, finally answering the Captain's question.

Hannibal saw his gloomy mood being reflected in his companion's mirrors and decided to discuss a less solemn subject. "So, how long have you been interested in flying, Captain Murdock?"

The young pilot's face instantly lit up. "Since I was fourteen-months-old, according to my Dad. That's when he took me on my very first plane ride.

He and my Uncle Wesley are partners in the biggest 'dude' ranch in Park County. They keep a small charter plane and a helicopter on the place, to cart the clientele back and forth from the bigger airports.

My Dad learned to fly when he was only seventeen.

He let me solo the plane when I was twelve. But he wouldn't let me take the copter up, alone, 'til I was sixteen.

I spent all my free time flying. The rest a' my time was spent working around the ranch, trying to earn the money, to pay for all the fuel I was burning up," he added with a grin.

The Colonel managed a slight smile. "Are you and your father the only ones in your family who fly?"

"My Mother died when I was five. My Dad said that she needed to take an airsick bag along, just to climb a stepladder. And, my Uncle Wes' only leaves the ground to climb up onto his horse. But, I'll bet my Grandfather would've lovedto fly! He was in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. You ever heard of Alexis Marcovich?"

Hannibal's brows arched. "Alexis Marcovich?"

"Yeah. He was an internationally famous trick rider."

"No. I can't say as I have. The last of the great Cossack Cowboys, no doubt."

Murdock grinned again. "He used to say that I could ride like a Cossack and fly like a bird." The Captain gazed rather wistfully up into the clear-blue-sky overhead. "I wish I really could fly like a bird. They have such tremendous freedom!"

"Freedom is just a state of mind, Captain. Anytime you want to experience freedom, all you have to do is close your eyes and assume the proper frame of mind."

The pilot's starry-eyed gaze switched from the sky to the old guy. "You wanna run that one by me again?"

The Colonel was forced to smile. "Let's see if I can give you an example…Okay, when was the last time that you can remember really feeling in control of your life?"

There was a long pause, as the Captain was unable to provide him with an answer.

"Been that long, has it? Okay then, what do you miss the most back in the States?"

"That's easy. My Dad and my dog, Billy. Billy is my shadow, my closest comrade, my constant companion. He even flies with me! I named him Billy after Buffalo Bill. He's big as a buffalo, too. Three-quarters wolf and one-quarter German Shepherd. There's been many a time I wished Billy was here with me. Billy would kill anybody who'd so much as lay a hand on me."

"Ye-es…Well, Billy _is_ here with you."

The kid gave his companion an 'are you for real?' stare.

"Close your eyes," the Colonel requested, "and I'll prove it to you."

The Captain hesitated. What was the delirious old guy going to do? Bite him?

"Go on. Close 'em," Hannibal urged.

Murdock reluctantly did.

"Good," the crazy Colonel continued. "First, I want you to clear your mind of everything…everything but Billy. Think only about your dog, Billy.

Now, picture him sitting down there on the ground below you. He's just waiting there, patiently…panting. Now, he's cocking his head and looking up at you with those eager, bright, trusting eyes of his. It's like he can't figure out why you can't come down and pet him. You speak his name…_You_ _speak his name_…"

"Billy…"

"His ears perk up. He stops panting and starts thumping the ground with that big, bushy tail of his…"

The Captain's eyes snapped open and he stared down at the ground below him, looking amazed. "I saw him! I really saw him! He was right…there," he sadly confessed.

"Great! Now, when everything else seems totally out of your control, remember, you still have control over you mind. Billy is always with you, locked away up there, safe and sound in your mind. And, you can let him out anytime you want, simply by closing your eyes and assuming the proper frame of mind," the Colonel paused, looking curious. "Is he housebroken?"

Murdock smiled and quickly closed his eyes. His brow furrowed a bit and he began to draw upon his very vivid imagination, once more. His pursed lips suddenly parted, "Billy! Hey there, ol' buddy! I missed yah, pal! No, no, boy, don't chew on my boots."

The old guy gazed amusedly across at his companion. "Why do I suddenly get the feeling that I've just opened up some kind of 'Pandora's Box', here?" he asked himself. Then he turned his gaze toward the 'main lobby', to watch the changing of the guards.

The door to their compound slowly 'screaked' open, to reveal another armed North Vietnamese soldier. The new guard had come to replace the old guard, so that he could go grab a bite to eat.

Suddenly, the new guard, who was an old guard, spotted the _two_ American prisoners hanging from the pole!

"Don't look now," Hannibal softly said. "But, I think they've just discovered their _big mistake_."

Captain Murdock's eyes snapped open and he insubordinately aimed them across the compound.

The new guard, who was an old guard, screamed something at the old guard, who was a new guard, and then went storming back into the building.

"Most definitely," the _big mistake_ quietly concurred. Murdock's gaze immediately shifted to his companion.

Both men's eyes met and the two of them managed to produce a pair of sad smiles.

"When they take you down, don't try to move your arms at all," the Colonel advised. "Just let them drag you. The first and the last five minutes are the worst. After that, it sort of wears off."

The door to the 'lobby' flew open with a forceful kick and four armed soldiers spilled into the compound.

The two POWs' eyes met again.

"One last thing, kid. Watch out for a sleaze by the name of Thomas Angel. He's a blond, curly-haired young Naval Lieutenant, turned North Vietnamese snitch."

"I believe I met somebody who fits that description already. I didn't speak to him. I didn't like the looks of his 'mirrors'. Hang in there, Colonel," the Captain softly urged. "And, pray for rain."

The ladder was placed up against their pole and the _big mistake_ was corrected.

Colonel Smith watched as the Captain was dragged off in the direction of the 'lounge'. It was a good thing Hannibal never worried, or he'd have been mighty worried right then.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

B.A. pulled into the alley behind the Occidental Import Company.

The van lurched, bumping Murdock back into the present.

The big kid's heart was not the only part of him that wasn't into playing. He'd just let his mind wander again. It was a good thing the Big Guy hadn't caught him daydreaming.

The slowing vehicle gradually rumbled to a stop.

He and Perry took another look out the van's back windows. A dark, dirty, damp alley appeared. H.M. found himself becoming miffed again. "This is your surprise, B.A.?"

"No," the van's driver shouted back over his shoulder. "This is where we wait for the surprise."

"Wrong, B.A.!" the Captain crankily corrected. "This is where you wait for the surprise. Cuz, I ain't hangin' around no more dark alleys! Not after the 'surprise' the Colonel and I got, the last time. Adios, muchacho!" He began reaching for the back door's latch, to make a quick exit.

"Hold it, Murdock!" the mucho grande muchacho gruffly ordered, and the guy with the split personality ceased to split. "I wen' through a lot a' trouble to arrange this little surprise fer you. I didn' hafta bring yah on this case, yah know. I could a' jes' lef' yah settin'—"

"—What case?" Murdock anxiously interrupted.

"We'll fin' out…once Hannibal gits here," B.A. surprisingly announced and used his rear view mirror to aim a broad smile back at the fool on the floor of his van. He saw that Murdock seemed more stunned than surprised and his smile faded fast. "What now, fool?"

His companion was almost too stunned to speak. "There must be some mistake. I haven't got Amy's report yet. But, I'm sure Hannibal is too sick to handle a case right now. You sure that message was from the Colonel?"

"What kin' a' fool question is that, fool? Of course it was Hannibal! I know Hannibal's voice when I hear it! Ain' nobody else in the world kin do 'Mario from da Barrio' the way Hannibal kin. An' besides, he used the code. Ain' nobody but us four that knows that nonsense."

While B.A.'s arguments were all perfectly logical, the message, itself, remained totally illogical.

"Well, then are you sure you got the code right?"

"I know how to read, fool! An' I ain' color blind, neither! This is the right place an' the right time!"

But, Murdock remained terribly ill at ease. It was wrong. Everything was all wrong. He placed Perry up against the van's back window and took another, closer look around. He gazed down the dreary, shadow-filled alley and spotted the glint of something metallic protruding around a corner of one of the buildings—a gun barrel! It was a sniper! An ambush! And the barrel was aimed right at the back of the Big Guy's head! "Ambush, B.A.! Get down!"

Instead of getting down, the van's driver turned around, to shoot his companion a look of complete confusion.

"Sniper, B.A.!" H.M. shouted and started scrambling towards the front of the van.

If Hannibal hadn't said 'not expecting trouble', the Sergeant might have taken his crazy companions shouted warnings more seriously and responded a little quicker. But he hesitated again, out of sheer disbelief.

"GET DOWN!" Murdock screamed and hurled himself at the Big Guy's head, in an attempt to force him to duck.

Just then, a shot rang out.

The van's back window's glass shattered, and the bullet that was originally meant for the back of B.A.'s head, ended up striking the back of H.M.'s left shoulder, instead.

The force of the impact flung Murdock into the van's dash and his head hit the front windshield—hard. "Ouch!" he gasped with a grimace.

B.A., who had, indeed, been forced to duck, latched onto the flyin' fool, as he started slowly slumping to the floor.

"Now do you see," his collapsing companion grimaced and gasped again, "why I **hate** surprises?"


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Meanwhile, in the alley, just outside the van, the _Gunfight at the O.K. Corral_ was in full swing.

Sporadic bursts of automatic rifle fire were being met with a single, steady blast of submachine gun fire.

The A-Team's Commander had taken cover behind a sturdy, steel trash bin. He chanced a glance in the GMC's direction. 'Go, B.A.! _Go-o_!' he silently willed. But the vehicle remained stationary. Why wasn't the van moving? Had its driver been hit? There was only one way to find out.

The Colonel left his protective cover and began jogging over to the stalled vehicle, dodging bullets and firing his submachine gun off from the hip, along the way.

He banged twice on the GMC's roof. Then he slid its side door open and quickly backed aboard. "Get us out of this alley, Sergeant!" he shouted, between machine gun bursts.

The sharp order snapped the still-stunned B.A. back to his senses. "Murdock's been hit, Hannibal!"

Colonel Smith squeezed off another steady stream of bullets and then repeated his command. "Get us out of this alley, Sergeant! Before we _all_ get hit!"

B.A. gently eased H.M. the rest of the way to the floor. Then he straightened back up behind the wheel of his idling van and threw its standard transmission into gear. He showed his rod no mercy, as he pushed the pedal to the metal and popped the clutch.

Tires squealed and the rapidly revved up vehicle went fishtailing off down the alley...and out of range.

The Colonel fired off a final burst and even managed—somehow—to get the still-open side door slid shut, before collapsing onto the floor of the speeding van himself. He had survived the O.K. Corral…but, just barely. "Circle the block, B.A.," he breathlessly requested. "We have to pick up Amy."

And, what about Murdock?

Hannibal got a sudden surge of adrenaline and propped himself up to check out the Captain's condition.

Murdock had propped himself up to check on the Colonel's condition.

They lay there, silently staring at each other. Neither man liked the way the other looked. Both their faces were ghostly pale. Both their foreheads were beaded with sweat and both of them were gasping between rapid, shallow breaths.

"**You okay, Captain/Colonel**?" they both asked at once, and then exchanged just the slightest of smiles.

Hannibal heaved himself up onto his hands and knees and then went crawling up to their fallen comrade, to administer whatever first aid he could.

"It's just a flesh wound, Colonel," Murdock assured his deeply concerned Commander.

"Right," Hannibal sarcastically replied, "and I've got a bad cold." He un-strapped the first aid kit from the back of B.A.'s bucket seat and immediately went to work.

By the time Baracus had circled halfway around the block, Hannibal had H.M.'s flight jacket off and was successfully stemming the steady stream of blood that was oozing from his ghastly 'flesh wound'.

By the time B.A. had driven completely back around, Miss Allen had arrived and found her car.

"Amy's here, Hannibal," the Sergeant announced and pulled up along side the little lady's little white LeCar.

"Good. Tell her to follow us."

"Follow us where?" the van's driver wondered.

"To the nearest Emergency Room."

Murdock stiffened and then groaned. "No, Colonel! Plea-ease? Don't leave me all alone in a hospital full of strangers!"

"You've lived all alone in a hospital full of strangers for the past decade. Why the sudden paranoia?"

"I wanna stay with you, Colonel! I wanna stay with the team. This is a _team_. Remember? 'United we stand, divided we fall'. 'All for one and one for all'. Go A-Team! Go!"

"This isn't Nam. Remember? We can't just radio for an EVAC chopper and have them fly in a medic. We have to take you to the medics. It is just a flesh wound. But, it's a nasty one and it's gonna take more than a few stitches to close it up. And I'm not about to ask Amy if she's got a sewing kit in her purse. Get us to a hospital—ASAP, Sergeant!"

B.A. drove off at a rather rapid rate and Miss Allen obediently followed.

Murdock groaned again. This time, in mental anguish. "Paleeee-eeeeze, Colonel? Palee-eeze let me stay with you?" he pleaded, desperately, and gave his Commander the most pitiful, pathetic look he could possibly muster.

The Colonel considered the Captain's plea over carefully, if not clearly. It took a considerable amount of time to sort through his jumbled thoughts. But Hannibal's oxygen-deprived brain did finally manage to concoct a plan. "Okay, B.A., find a phone booth."

The Sergeant's eyes obediently began searching the sidewalks on both sides of the street they were racing down.

The Captain looked hopeful. "Does this mean I kin stay with you guys?"

"Wait 'til we call for the medics," the Colonel advised. "The paramedics, that is." He finished binding up their gunshot victim's wound. "I'll give you my decision _after_ I hear what they have to say."

Murdock remained hopeful…and increasingly concerned about his Colonel's health. He noticed that the _Aquamaniac_ was beginning to look a little blue around the gills. "When was the last time you cough—?"

"—Here's a phone booth, Hannibal!" the Sergeant suddenly interrupted and brought his gradually slowing van to a complete stop.

'Saved by Ma Bell,' the Colonel thought to himself and quickly slipped back out the vehicle's side door.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Colonel Smith stepped around the back of the van and went strolling up to Amy Allen's open car window. "I need you to make one more phone call for me," he announced.

Hannibal pulled the portal open and then ushered the little lady out of her vehicle and up onto the sidewalk. "Murdock's been hit."

"Yeah. I know. B.A. told me. How's he doing?"

"He needs a doctor. But, he doesn't want to go to the E.R.. I want you to dial 911 for me," The A-Team's Commander requested, as he escorted Amy up to the phone booth.

"Why do I have to make the call?" Amy annoyedly inquired.

"Because sometimes they dispatch police officers with the paramedics," Hannibal patiently explained. "And, if the cops were to get here before the firemen, things could get 'sticky'. Tell them you're pregnant and that you're feeling 'faint'," he suggested. Then he stuffed the caller into the booth and closed the door on her, before she could open her frowning mouth to protest.

The girl glared at him through the glass for a few moments, before reluctantly reaching for the receiver.

The reporter placed the call and then quickly exited the booth. "Hannibal, while we're on the subject of phone calls…When I called your answering service, to tell 007 to abort, I was told that you had received a message from some guy named Lynch."

"Ly-ynch? That doesn't figure, Amy. Lynch isn't bright enough to be the brains behind all of this."

"Be that as it may," Miss Allen went on, "they said that he said: 'I told yah I'd get yah Smith, if it was the last thing I ever did! I already took care of the rest of your team. So, start lookin' over your shoulder, Colonel, cuz you're next!'"

"If he takes care of me the way he took care of Murdock and B.A., I don't think I have too much to worry abou—" Hannibal stopped speaking, as a siren suddenly started up.

He and the girl turned in the sound's direction, to investigate its source.

The wailing was coming from a rescue squad that had just exited the Los Angeles County Fire Station situated about half way down the block.

Their looks of amazement quickly turned to ones of amusement.

"I don't think you have to worry too much about the cops getting here before the firemen, either," Amy lightly quipped.

Her companion was forced to grin. "Be gentle, Amy," the Colonel advised and began heading back over to their van. "Remember, you're dealing with America's Bravest."

The rescue squad pulled up and parked behind her car. Its occupants exited and began emptying its side compartments.

Amy panicked. "What if they don't want to help us?"

"Then we forget the whole thing. We're not kidnapping any firemen," Hannibal assured the slightly agitated girl, just prior to disappearing from sight.

Miss Allen exhaled a sigh of semi-relief and her anxious gaze returned to the rescue squad.

"Did you call the Fire Department, Miss?" one of her tall, gallant rescuers inquired, as he and his partner came trotting up, carting their heavy cases of medical equipment.

"I sure did," Amy unenthusiastically told the 'brave' blond-haired firefighter, standing before her.

"Well, what seems to be the problem, ma-am?" his dark-haired partner pondered, as no problem seemed apparent.

"My name is Amy Allen. I'm a foreign correspondent for the LA Courier-Express," she introduced and flashed the pair her press card. "Have either of you ever heard of The A-Team?"

The two firemen exchanged aggravated glances and began lowering their heavy burdens to the sidewalk.

"Look, Miss Allen, do you need us, or not?" the dark-haired paramedic suddenly demanded, venting some of the pair's increasing annoyance in the pretty reporter's direction.

Miss Allen noted the nametags that were pinned to the two men's chests. The blond guy was 'Roy DeSoto'; his dark-haired—impatient—partner was 'John Gage'. "The A-Team needs you. Three members of the team are in that van, right there, and one of them has been hurt pretty badly.

Their leader has asked me to ask you to please help their injured friend. All you have to do is take a look at him. You won't be held against your will and no harm will come to you," Amy quickly added, seeing the two men's looks of stunned disbelief being replaced by belief, and finally by fear and uncertainty.

The pair of rescuers found the woman's remarks somewhat reassuring. Still, they remained at a loss, as to what they should do.

"I've heard of these guys, Roy," Gage quietly confessed. "According to all the underground newspapers, The A-Team is the best thing to happen to LA, since Zorro!"

"I've heard of these guys, too, Johnny," DeSoto nervously replied. "They're wanted by the authorities."

"So was Zorro," Gage reminded his partner. Then he aimed his solemn gaze at the girl. "I'll take a look at him."

"We'll both take a look," his companion quickly corrected.

The paramedics picked their equipment cases back up and began heading over to the GMC van that was parked in front of the open phone booth.

The A-Team's Commander shoved the black and gray vehicle's back doors open. "Right this way, gentlemen," he invited and proceeded to assist the helpful pair aboard.

Once they'd gotten themselves—and all their cases of medical equipment—onboard, the paramedics' concerned gazes shifted from Hannibal to Murdock and then back to Hannibal again.

"You sure only _one_ of you needs us?" John Gage asked the silver-gray haired, cyanotic member of the infamous A-Team.

"For now," the bluish-tinged fellow replied with a confident smirk.

The two turned their attention to the body, lying at their feet.

"What's under all those bandages?" Roy DeSoto anxiously asked.

"A bullet blazed the Suez Canal across the back of his left shoulder," the Colonel obligingly came back. "About ten minutes ago."

The paramedics dropped to their knees and began opening cases.

"Hi," Gage greeted the heavily bandaged team member lying facedown on the floor of the van. "I'm John. He's Roy. We're here to help you, okay?"

Murdock managed a slight nod and just kept right on repeating the same thing, over and over again.

The firemen finished taking and recording their gunshot victim's vital signs.

Their patient calmly continued his whispered mantra, "I must remember the Vulcan mind rules. Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled. There is no pain…There is no pain…There is no pain…"

"Does that really work?" John pondered.

"Nah," their pained patient replied with a grimace and a gasp. "It just gives me somethin' to say, besides 'ou-ouch!'"

His paramedics exchanged amused glances.

"How is he?" Hannibal anxiously inquired.

Roy rose stiffly to his feet and then proceeded to give The A-Team's deathly-ill looking leader a report on their findings. "Well…He doesn't appear to have unwillingly donated too much of his blood. His vital signs are all stable. We could call it in and request an IV and something for the pain…"

The Colonel nodded his approval of the medical man's plan of action.

The hospital was contacted and permission was given to start an IV and administer pain meds.

DeSoto carefully adjusted the flow rate on their patient's successfully established IV.

Seeing the look of deep concern on The A-Team Commander's face, Roy reassuringly announced, "Miss Allen's ambulance should be here shortly. We can transport immediately."

Murdock found the fireman's remarks anything but reassuring! He gave the Colonel his pitiful, pouting, pleading look, once more.

"Will his life be in danger, if you do not 'transport immediately'?" Hannibal wondered, because he gave his word.

The paramedics were stunned by his inquiry.

"Not serious danger, no," DeSoto finally admitted. "His condition is stable…for the moment."

"Then, when you guys get back to your truck, you can cancel the ambulance. Once they leave, we leave, B.A.! Face's place! On the double!"

"Right!" the van's driver acknowledged.

Murdock looked tremendously relieved and absolutely delighted.

The two firefighter p.m.s looked positively flabbergasted.

"We can't abandon a patient once we've begun an IV," Gage adamantly stated, when he finally got his voice back.

Hannibal groaned inwardly. He didn't need the whole 'hostage' hysteria. But, he admired these men—and respected their medical ethics. "All right. One of you can tag along with us…for the moment."

"It would be better, if he were to tag along with us," Roy solemnly reminded the silver-gray haired guy.

"Better for you, maybe," the Colonel quickly concurred. "But, not for him."

Murdock gave his Commander a 'You got that right!' grin.

"Thank you both, gentlemen," Hannibal sincerely said. "The A-Team really appreciates your assistance. Now, which **one** of you is staying?"

The two firemen exchanged anxious glances. Neither of them wanted to leave the other behind.

Precious seconds passed.

"C'mon, guys," the Colonel encouraged. "We've got places to go and people to see."

Gage grabbed a pair of tongue depressors from one of their open cases and placed them behind his back. There was a loud 'snap', as he cracked one of the unseen items in half. When he reproduced the pair, their bottom halves were concealed in his right palm. "Short stick stays," he somberly proposed.

DeSoto reluctantly withdrew one of the wooden objects. It was depressing, all right! His stick was still intact. That meant he was leaving and his partner was staying.

With that important issue finally taken care of, The A-Team's fearless leader began working his way up to the front of the van.

"Sit down, Hannibal," Amy suggested and quickly vacated her front passenger seat.

The Colonel took it. The last thing Hannibal felt like, right then, was a gentleman. "He's gonna be okay," he relievedly announced. "Now, all we have to do is find Face…hopefully, before Lynch does."

The Sergeant's solemn gaze shifted from the Captain to the Colonel. "Yah mean, Lynch is responsible fer all a' this?"

"I find it incredibly difficult to believe it myself," the Colonel confessed. "But, yes, Lynch has taken credit for it…so far."

B.A. clenched his jaws and then his fists. "If I ever git my han's on that dude, he gonna be livin' up ta his name! Man! I thought we was all through with that sucker, Hannibal!"

"We were. Unfortunately, it seems he wasn't all through with us."

Something suddenly occurred to the Sergeant. "What went wrong back there, Hannibal? You realize you led us right inta an ambush?"

"Hannibal didn't have anything to do with what happened back there, B.A.," Amy defensively informed him. "He didn't even know you guys were going to that alley until it was almost too late to stop you. And then, he almost killed himself trying to rescue you!"

The Big Guy looked thoughtful. "That true, Hannibal?"

"Well, I don't know about the 'almost killing myself' part. But the rest of it is true, yes."

B.A. looked completely confused and felt tremendously dejected. His gaze shifted back over his shoulder, to Murdock. "He was right. He was right all along. Murdock knew it wasn' you that lef' me that message. But, I wouldn' listen. An' I almos' got 'im kill't! An' it would a' been all my fault!" He turned back to the Colonel. "I didn' think nobody could do 'Mario from da Barrio' like you, Hannibal. This guy was good, man! He even knew the crazy code!"

"Nobody conn do Mario from dee Barrio like me, monn," Hannibal assured his dejected friend. "They used a recording of my voice to set you up…monn. A-and, you saved Murdock's life this afternoon! Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into his room. He'd be dead right now, if you hadn't gotten him out of the hospital."

The expression on the Sergeant's face went from sad…to shocked…to astounded. "Yah mean, you really did leave me that message?"

"Yeah. But, I left it three months ago. Someone else left it this afternoon."

"That don' make no sense, Hannibal!"

"I figure, they must have had your phone tapped back then. And, all they did today was play my message to your recorder—back to your recorder."

Baracus remained dubious. "If they had my phone tapped three months ago, then that means they know'd where I lived three months ago—an' that means that they could a' kill't me three months ago! So, that still don' make no sense, Hannibal!"

"Well, it makes more sense than _me_ setting you guys up!" the guy on the receiving end of the Sergeant's angry, accusing glare defensively stated. "I could really use some air," he quietly confessed, and quickly slipped out his side door.

Amy assumed Hannibal's freshly vacated seat and then gave the guy with the angry, accusing glares an accusing glare of her own. "Why didn't you just _hit_ him, B.A.?" she sarcastically inquired. "I'm sure he'd much rather you break his jaw…than his heart."

Baracus' anger quickly gave way to regret. "I didn' mean ta hurt 'is feelin's. I know Hannibal would never set us up. Hannibal would die, fers'!"

Miss Allen flashed him a slight, sad smile. "I think you're telling the wrong person, here. Don't you?"

B.A. returned the little lady's smile and then left…to go find the right person.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

B.A. found the right person, all right. But, in the wrong place!

Hannibal was sprawled out face first on the sidewalk beside the van.

The message wasn't the only thing Murdock had been right about.

The Sergeant scooped their leader's limp body up, carried him around to the back of the van, and placed him gently down inside, right at the two paramedics' feet. "I wan' you guys ta take a look at Hannibal."

The two rescuers watched, in stunned silence, as the big, black, mean-looking member of The A-Team deposited another victim on the floor of the van.

The silver-gray haired guy was passed out cold and there was some minor bleeding from a small cut just above the corner of his right eye.

"No-ow!" the big guy gruffly tacked on and the two frozen firefighters sprang into action.

Murdock, who was half out of it—from lack of sleep and sufficient painkillers—slowly picked his groggy head up. "What happened to him, B.A.?" he quietly inquired.

"You was right, man! Hannibal is one sick dude. He blacked out on the sidewalk an' cracked his head open on the concrete."

Amy gasped.

H.M. groaned and his heavy head dropped back to the floor.

John completed his initial patient survey and turned to his partner, "Better get the oxygen and uncancel that ambulance!"

Roy, who'd just finished taking vital signs, nodded gravely and turned to leave. He couldn't. The big, black guy was still standing there in the van's back doorway, blocking his path to their rescue squad.

"You kin fetch the oxygen," Baracus allowed. "But you kin ferget the ambulance!"

DeSoto suddenly turned a little mean-looking himself. "Your friend here is one sick dude! And, if we don't get him to a hospital, he could be one dead dude!"

Miss Allen gasped again. There was that second opinion Hannibal had wanted!

Murdock groaned again. He knew it was the Colonel's clothesline cough!

B.A. stared solemnly down at the unconscious member of their team and made the decision Amy hadn't felt qualified to make earlier in the day. "Hannibal ain' goin' ta no hospital. Someone could reco'nize 'im. An' then, he be transferred to a prison hospital. An' Hannibal would rather be a dead dude…than a dude stuck in prison."

The two paramedics looked thoughtful. They could relate to that. While they didn't always agree with a patient's choice—to accept or deny treatment—they always respected the fact that it was the patient's decision to make.

John went back to listening to their victim's lungs.

"No ambulance," Roy promised, as he squeezed by the big guy, en route to their rescue squad.

Gage pulled his stethoscope from his ears and aimed a foreboding frown at Amy. "How long has he been sick like this?"

"Since yesterday morning," Murdock replied in slow motion. "But, he's been coughing ever since those gargantuan goons tried to drown him, in one a' those Olympic size pools, over at the now closed down Charles W. Clemsen's unhealthy recreational club."

John finished cleaning and bandaging their drowning victim's cut and then glanced down at their gunshot victim, looking stunned again. "You mean…you guys had a hand in shutting down that child prostitution racket?"

"We put that scum out a' business fer good!" B.A. proudly declared. "Clemsen ain' gonna be hurtin' no more kids! But, he gonna be hurtin' fer awhile!" he added with a shake of his big, powerful right fist.

Gage was even more amazed. "They never gave you guys any credit for it on the news. All that was mentioned was the police raid."

"It's a thankless job," Miss Allen sullenly admitted.

"Police didn' raid nothin', man! We lef' that scum strung up over a pool an' then called the police ta come an' cart 'em off to jail," Baracus corrected. "But, we don' care about the 'glory'. All's we care about is the kids!"

Roy returned with the oxygen just then and the two firemen turned their attention to regulating their cyanotic victim's rapid, shallow respirations.

John stared down at their pneumonia victim, looking thoughtful. "Look, if you guys are worried about him getting caught," he finally spoke up, "I might know of a place we could take him. A place where he could get the treatment that he needs, without being handed over to the authori--"

"—Johnny!" DeSoto suddenly interjected, and looked at his partner like he'd just lost his mind, or something. "First-aid'ing is one thing. Aiding and abetting is a—"

"—felony?" his fellow firefighter finished for him.

"Actually, I was going to say 'another thing all together'. But, felony certainly fits the—"

"—Where?" Miss Allen demanded, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

Gage got the asphyxiating guy's oxygen flowing—wide open. He gave the gauge on the regulator a final check and then turned to the girl. "I'll have to have your word that no harm will come to the person who runs the pla—"

"—Johnny?" his panicked partner interrupted, again. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"I don't really know _what_ I'm doing," 'Johnny' quietly confessed. "I just know that it's the _right_ thing to do, " he earnestly added, and flashed his concerned friend a crooked, confident smile.

"You have our word," Amy assured him. "No harm will come to anyone. At least, not from us, anyway."

"We got money, if—" B.A. began.

"—Zorro's word is all I need," Gage announced and gave the big, black fellow his confident grin. "A bowling buddy of mine runs a Free Clinic. It's a pretty well equipped place. There are even underground newspapers in the waiting room. That's where I first read about you guys. Of course, because of the source, I didn't really believe what I was reading. But, Brian believes. And—now—so do I. Before he became a doctor, Brian was an Army medic. I'm sure he'd be willing to help you guys out, being as how you're fellow Veterans, an' all."

The Sergeant had heard enough. "What're we waitin' for? Les' go!"

DeSoto gave his flipped out partner one, last, deeply concerned look. "I'll get you some spare cylinders," he glumly volunteered and turned to leave.

Murdock exhaled a shallow breath…of relief. They were going to a clinic where the Colonel could receive the treatment he so desperately needed. The Captain even allowed himself to relax…a bit. He had been struggling, for some time now, to keep his sleep-deprived, heavily medicated mind fully functional. But, a tsunami of weariness swept over him, and he finally lost the battle.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Captain Murdock's guards didn't give his arms five minutes to adjust before forcing them into a new position.

His aching limbs were wrenched down and the chain was wrapped once around his waist before the opened manacle was replaced, so that his wrists were now pinned to his sides.

The pain in his shoulders was excruciating! He lay there, on the filthy floor of the 'lounge', grimacing and gasping and groaning aloud.

The young pilot gazed dazedly up at the string of bare electric bulbs, which dangled from the windowless building's unbelievably low ceiling, and tried not to think of the price he was about to pay for their _big mistake_.

Another involuntary groan escaped from him, as he was jerked roughly to his feet.

His guards escorted him up to another American POW—a curly-haired, blond young Naval Lieutenant.

The soldiers then retreated to one of the large, open room's far corners, leaving the two prisoners alone.

Lieutenant Thomas Angel was seated on a wooden bench, with his back leaning against the wall and his arms folded across his chest. The young officer looked perfectly at home in his surroundings…like the rat that he was. The rodent beamed a big, phony smile up at the young pilot and patted the empty bench space beside him. "Have a seat, Captain," he invited. "We may be here awhile."

But, after sitting on the 'clothesline' for over sixteen hours—and hanging from it for another five—Murdock preferred to stand. And, even if he didn't prefer to stand, the Captain would certainly have never parked it beside that 'fallen angel'.

The Lieutenant's phony smile faded fast. The creep then re-crossed his arms and sighed. "I've been here quite awhile already…almost four months. What about you Captain? How long have you been here?"

The young pilot rolled his eyes at the lying Lieutenant's loony attempt to make small talk. He knew that Angel knew that he just got there yesterday, because the guy was in the 'main lobby' when he arrived. "Murdock…HM…Captain…Serial Number 8006-63-2951," he coldly stated and gave the snitch with the ba-ad mirrors an icy stare.

Lt. Thomas Angel frowned. His mirrors clouded up, ominously. "That long, huh." He slowly straightened up on the bench. "Well…you're making a big mistake, you know. Cuz now, General Chou is going to ask the questions. And, you're going to find yourself wishing that you had talked with _me_, instead," the rat smugly concluded. Then, he got calmly to his feet and immediately left the room.

Captain Murdock gave his fellow prisoner's back a 'good riddance' glare.

His armed guards returned and stood two at each side.

A North Vietnamese officer entered the room through the same door the snitch had just exited it from. He strode, authoritatively, to the center of the 'interrogation' area and the remaining prisoner was shoved up to him.

The Captain found himself staring into the guy's cold, cruel, calculating eyes. The exchange of views was most unpleasant. But, it was what the prisoner _didn't_ see that he found most disturbing. The man's mirrors were completely devoid of humanity. They reflected no compassion…no human emotions, whatsoever. It was like he was staring into the mirrors of a…reptile. Murdock had never looked **evil** directly in the eyes before. The experience left him visibly shaken. The Captain concluded his silent assessment of his captor. 'He's just an angry Yul Brenner…with a mustache,' he lightly determined. Finally, in an attempt to bolster his courage, he flashed the snarling General, with the shaved head and scary mirrors, a big, broad, confident grin.

Chou's perpetual sneer became even more snarled. "Captain Murdock," he pompously acknowledged, in a voice void of any accent or emotion. "I am General Sunh Chin Chou, Commanding Officer of this camp. My men have informed me that you were inadvertently detained with another American officer, who was supposed to remain in solitary confinement. I am anxious to hear what Colonel Smith had to say to you…"

Captain Murdock completely ignored the head rat's hint and remained silent.

The General calmly stepped back out of the way and motioned for the guards to loosen the prisoner's tongue up a bit.

Murdock gasped and doubled up, as they brought their rifle butts into forceful contact with his already sore ribcage. The blows didn't un-stick his tongue. But, they sure took his mind off his aching shoulders.

Chou stomped up to the still silent prisoner and pulled him up by his hair. "What did he tell you?" he angrily demanded, and then smugly added, "Besides warning you about the Lieutenant, that is."

Again the prisoner remained silent, and again an attempt was made—and failed—to loosen his un-talkative tongue.

The General stared down at the stubborn man, who had been knocked to his knees before him, and exhaled an impatient gasp. "This could take all day!" he grumbled. Then, something suddenly occurred to him and his gloomy countenance brightened. He shouted out an order, in his native tongue.

Two of Murdock's four guards snapped to attention and then quickly left the building.

The remaining guards pulled the gasping, grimacing prisoner back up onto his unsteady feet.

Chou sashayed up to the Captain and gave the still-silent young man a respectful sneer. "You and Colonel Smith have obviously been cast from the same mold."

The Captain accepted the General's observation as the highest of compliments. He set his tightly clamped jaws a little firmer, held his hurting head up a tad higher and straightened his sagging shoulders a bit.

"And—like the Colonel—you would probably prefer to DIE …rather than to answer a few harmless questions."

Murdock had jerked, involuntarily, at the shouted word 'die', and he jerked again, as the door to the compound flew open with a forceful kick.

The two missing guards reappeared, dragging Colonel Smith's limp body between them.

The Colonel's shoulders didn't get five minutes, either. His shackled wrists were bound to his sides, in the same manner as the Captain's.

The guards towed the prisoner over to the General and then tried to get him to stand.

But the Colonel, who hadn't stood in almost seven weeks, just kept sagging to his knees.

Eventually, the soldiers gave up and resigned themselves to supporting their prisoner's weight, as he knelt there.

Chou stepped up to Smith. "But, I wonder if you would still choose DEATH…" he continued to shout, "…if someone _else_ were to do the DYING ?" Then he pulled that someone else's hanging head up by his long, silver-gray locks.

Hannibal's mirrors reflected the agonizing pain he was experiencing on the inside, and the grip of the even bigger pain standing before him was causing him to grimace. He pulled his hair free of the General's grasp and gave the guy a disgusted glare, before riveting his anxious gaze upon the Captain. He gave the young pilot a worried once over and was relieved to find him 'relatively' undamaged. Then, his attention returned to the sadistic General. The Colonel gave his arch nemesis an 'if looks could kill' glare along with a broad and confident grin. "There's just no escaping it, Chou. First you said that I wasn't coming out of that box…until I apologized. Then you said that I was going to hang there on that pole…until I rotted. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You are obviously…a compulsive…liar!"

The compulsive liar's face filled with rage and indignation. "SHUT UP!" he bellowed, and belted the prisoner—right across his smart mouth—with the back of his gloved hand. Chou spun back around and directed his wrath, and another menacing snarl, at the Captain. "You will tell me everything he told you! NO-OW!"

Murdock stiffened and swallowed hard. "We talked a lot about the weather. He really didn't say too much. He was unconscious most of the ti—"

"—According to the guard, the two of you spoke for several hours!" the General snidely corrected. "Now, ANSWER ME! Or watch him DIE !"

The Captain looked positively horrified. His already racing heart's rate doubled.

The Colonel rolled his head back around to face his fellow prisoner.

Their eyes met.

Hannibal gave the young pilot a pleading, desperate look and motioned with his head in the negative.

The Captain glanced from the Colonel to the General to the Colonel, looking at a total loss.

The kneeling prisoner gave him another pleading look and again shook his head 'no'.

General Chou unsnapped the leather holster on his hip and casually withdrew his weapon.

Murdock grimaced and then gasped in complete exasperation. He couldn't tell the General what the Colonel told him. But, he couldn't let the General blow the Colonel's brains out, either! He'd rather be shot himself! But, if he died , the Colonel and his 'plan' would die, too! He gasped again. No matter what he did, the Colonel was going to lose. So, it didn't really matter what he did.

Chou brought the tip of his gun's barrel into contact with the Colonel's left temple.

Murdock's and the old guy's mirrors met again.

The Colonel's reflected a concern for his fellow prisoner and a remarkably calm acceptance of his rapidly approaching death.

The Captain sure wished he could achieve a little of that inner peace himself.

Just then, the Colonel's words came echoing back to him, from the not too distant recesses of his trouble brain. 'Now, when everything else seems totally out of your control, remember, you still have control over your mind.'

He saw the General's gloved finger begin to pull the pistol's trigger.

If only he could _really_ drum up Billy! Then again, why couldn't he?

The Captain made his decision. He would die before he had to watch the Colonel be killed.

He let out a deep-throated growl and lunged for the gunman's gun arm. His teeth sank into cloth and flesh and he clamped his jaws down—hard.

The General discharged his weapon and let out a cry of native profanity.

Because the pistol had been pulled away, the Colonel's brains remained intact. The bullet had lodged itself harmlessly in one of the 'lounge's' bloodstained floorboards.

The stunned soldiers recovered from their initial shock and quickly knocked the 'canine' Captain to the bloodstained floor, as well.

Chou rubbed his badly bruised and bitten wrist and screamed a few more choice Vietnamese expletives.

"NO-O!" Hannibal pleaded, as the General swung his pistol over and took direct aim at the collapsed Captain's still groggy head.

The General's gloved finger continued to tighten on the trigger. But then, a rather pleasant thought occurred to him. He turned to the pleading prisoner and then stood there, looking very pleased with himself. "Perhaps we can make a little trade, Colonel? The Captain's life for say…an apology?"

"Deal!" the prisoner readily replied.

General Chou gleamed and beamed and shouted out another order in Vietnamese.

One of the soldiers nodded to his superior and then quickly left the building.

The Colonel saw that his fellow prisoner had regained his senses, somewhat. The young pilot was looking back at him like he'd just lost his. He gave the confused Captain a confident wink.

Chou had also noticed that his assailant had revived.

"Leave him be!" Hannibal further pleaded. "Or the deal's off!"

But the sadist was not going to be denied his revenge. The General stomped up to the prone prisoner and then rammed the heel of his boot down—hard, on his bound left wrist.

"AH-AHHH!" the Captain cried out in agony, as something 'snapped' in his crushed left forearm. He gritted his already tightly clenched teeth and then lay there, gasping.

Hannibal gave the foreign fiend another 'if looks could kill' glare and then told him something terribly unflattering, in his native tongue.

Chou was so satisfied with the results of his efforts to attain revenge that he barely flinched at the Colonel's hurled insults. He walked calmly up to the insolent prisoner and was just about to crack him across his smart mouth again—when the missing guard returned, with four other soldiers and Lin Duk Koo in tow. The General assumed his most aristocratic stance and then made the little announcement it had taken him almost two months to make.

The guards glanced at each other and then at Colonel Smith—in disbelief.

Lin Duk Koo appeared positively stunned and his sad mirrors moistened.

Chou nodded in Smith's direction. "You may proceed with your apology, Colonel."

Hannibal purposely drew in a deep breath and then doubled up in a fit of violent coughing.

The General gasped impatiently and shouted out another order.

One of the soldiers ducked into the building next-door and returned with a cup of water.

The two guards standing at the Colonel's sides straightened him up and then tried to force the water down his choking throat.

"Nyue ginh kue!" the Colonel requested, as their efforts caused him to cough worse than ever.

They pulled the cup away from the prisoner's tightly pursed lips and started whacking him on the back between his shoulder blades.

"Nyue! Nyue!" Hannibal gasped with a grimace, and the whacking stopped.

Eventually, so did the coughing.

But the Colonel continued to just kneel there, silently, swaying between his guards.

"Get on with it!" Chou angrily advised.

Hannibal realized that the General had reached the limits of his patience. So, he got on with it, speaking in fluent Vietnamese.

Murdock forced his tightly shut eyes open and then focused them on Lin Duk's face. He studied Lin's reaction to the Colonel's rather lengthy apology, carefully.

Lin Duk's watering eyes sparkled with amusement and the corners of his mouth kept twitching and turning upwards. He finally had to bite his lower lip, to keep from grinning outright.

The Captain turned in Chou's direction and saw that the General was experiencing just the opposite reaction.

The sadistic officer's smug look had been replaced by one of absolute rage and indignation again and he went stomping up to the apologizing prisoner. "ENOUGH!" he screamed and emphasized his command by giving the Colonel the sharp, backhanded crack in the mouth he'd held off giving him earlier.

Hannibal broke into a broad grin and then rolled his head back around, to beam it up at the General. "You didn't really think…I was going to trust…a compulsive liar…did you?"

This time, Chou's reaction was to pistol whip the Colonel into a state of semi-consciousness. Seeing that he had finally shut the prisoner's smart mouth, the General shouted out a few final orders and started taking his leave.

"Ciao, Chou!" the Colonel groggily called after him.

The departing General halted. He stood there for a few moments, tightly clenching his jaws and fists. Then he shook off his rage and went striding rather disgustedly out of the 'lounge'.

Hannibal heard a door slam. His now bleeding mouth formed a slight smile. He turned his still groggy gaze toward the still grimacing Captain and managed to give the kid another confident wink—before passing out completely.

The guards started dragging the unconscious Colonel off.

Murdock shot Lin Duk an extremely apprehensive glance.

Lin Duk smiled reassuringly and gave the concerned Captain a confident wink of his own.

The pained young pilot saw that the soldiers were carting the Colonel's limp body back out into the compound and exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

The remaining guards formed a wide circle around the remaining prisoner. The soldiers just stood there, exchanging nervous whispers and giving the young American strange stares.

Lin Duk stepped forward and then stooped down beside the pained young pilot.

"Why are they looking at me like that, Lynduck?" the Captain nervously inquired, speaking in a whisper as well.

"Not safe to talk here," Lin whispered back. "Talk later in Captain's cell. Can you stand?"

"I think so. It's my wrist that's broken—not my legs."

Lin frowned and then said something to the guards.

The four that had arrived with him started heading back to their posts.

One of the two remaining guards handed the key to the prisoner's restraints over to Koo.

Chains jingled as Lin gently removed the sharp metal bands from the prisoner's raw wrists.

Murdock cautiously began reaching for his injured left forearm. "AH-AHHH!" he involuntarily cried out, as even the slightest movement and lightest pressure caused excruciating pain to shoot up his arm and down into his hand.

Speaking of hands…Lin was the only person present who would lend him one. "Captain go now," the guy who was on everyone's side whispered, as he helped the hurting Captain back up onto his feet. "Guards take Captain to cell. Lin come soon to fix Captain's wrist," he promised and reluctantly handed the prisoner over to his countrymen.

The soldiers even more reluctantly took him and began escorting him from the building.

Lin saw the wide berth that the guards were giving their hunched over hostage, and was forced to smile.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Captain Murdock sat on the floor of his cell in the 'executive suite' of A-block.

The only thing the dingy, dreary little cubicle contained was its occupant. The young man was crouched in a back corner, just as far away as he could get from the open bars, which constituted the front wall of his puny, own personal prison.

A wide center aisle ran between the two rows of identical cells that lined the wooden building's walls. An armed guard patrolled said aisle, and the prisoner didn't want to be within striking range of the guy's rifle butt.

The Captain's good right arm was clutching his incredibly sore ribcage. He was trying to keep his throbbing left arm elevated. So, his left elbow was perched upon his left knee. His forehead was resting on his right knee and his left hand was draped across the back of his neck.

The prisoner's eyes were closed. But he wasn't asleep. Every time sheer physical, mental and emotional exhaustion caused him to drift off, the sheer agony of his throbbing left forearm and badly bruised mid-section would cause him to drift back again. He winced each time he drew a breath and flinched each time his fractured wrist moved—even just the slightest fraction of an inch.

Oh, well. At least the General hadn't ordered the guards to hang him by his broken arm…yet.

He heard the shuffling of feet, just outside his cell, but didn't bother to look up. Looking up would require him to lift his head. If his head moved, then the hand resting on the back of his neck would move…and the hand bones were connected to the wrist bones—one or more of which were no longer connected.

But then, he heard a key scraping in the lock of his barred door. Bones or no bones, he decided he'd better check out his company. "AH-AHHH!" he cried out in agony and carefully raised his injured arm so he could lift his head and have a look.

Lin Duk Koo entered his cell.

The Captain saw that he was carrying a basket. Probably the same one he'd had with him the night before. Guard or no guard, he welcomed the guy who was on everyone's side with a warm smile.

The soldier who had admitted Lin Duk didn't stick around long enough to see it.

Lin saw it and returned it.

"Is it safe to talk now?" Murdock wondered in a whisper.

His visitor nodded. "Most safe. Guards leave us alone. Colonel Smith see to that." Lin's smile faded fast and a deeply concerned look filled his face. "How is Captain's broken wrist?"

"Still broken," the young pilot glumly replied. "What do you mean, the Colonel saw to that? What did Colonel Smith say, Lyn?"

The thought of what Colonel Smith had said caused Lin Duk's smile to return. "Colonel's apology most interesting indeed," he declared and began emptying the basket's contents out onto the floor of the cell. "Colonel say General give his word that no harm will come to Colonel or Captain if Colonel make apology for humiliating General.

Colonel say Colonel sorry only if General Chou keep his word. If General not keep his word then Colonel not sorry. Colonel say we shall see if General Chou is a man of his word or if General is just big liar.

General Chou must accept Colonel's apology or risk losing face in front of his men again.

Colonel know this. Colonel Smith one smart cookie!" he added and his smile broadened into a grin. Lin opened a little glass bottle, containing a murky-looking liquid of some sort, and passed it on to the prisoner, who was sitting there looking both amused and amazed. "Drink this…"

Murdock eyed the open bottle and its murky contents suspiciously. "What is it?" he wondered and reached out with his good right hand, to take it from him. He passed the open container under his nose. "Whew!" he exclaimed, as his eyes watered and his face scrunched up.

Lin Duk looked pleased with both himself and his smelly potion. "Captain drink. Drink kill pain."

"Captain drink. Drink kill Captain," Murdock quickly corrected. "Where'd you get this stuff? It smells like a mixture of jet fuel and old gym lockers."

"Lin must go all the way into city. That why Lin not come sooner. Now Captain must drink. Drink must kill pain. Then Lin must fix wrist."

Murdock remained deeply skeptical, but forced himself to take a sip, seeing as how the guy had gone to so much bother to get it for him. "U-Uhhg!" he gasped and shuddered. His nose hadn't failed him. The stuff tasted like a mixture of jet fuel and old gym lockers!

"Must hold nose when drinking keiphue," Lin Duk belatedly announced.

"Keep away?" the Captain inquired with a smile. "Whoever named this stuff sure knew what they were doin'."

"Lin Duk hold bottle. Captain hold nose. Captain must drink." He snatched the bottle back.

Murdock's smile fled his face as Lin persisted, pressing the bottle's mouth up to his. The prisoner held his nose and swallowed. Several grimaces, gasps and shudders later, the Captain started to feel the effects of the keiphue…and the main effect was that he felt very little else. Soon, he could feel nothing at all. Every part of him was numb, including his noggin. His mirrors appeared mesmerized and he let out a long sigh of utter contentment.

Satisfied with the results of his putrid, potent potion, Lin traded the bottle in his hand for some splints and bandages. "Reason guards give Captain most strange looks and leave Captain most alone is because Colonel tell them Captain is important powerful member of bizarre Imperialist American religious cult.

Colonel say Captain holds great power over mai-ku. Colonel say Captain is possessed by many powerful mai-ku and that Captain has gone most crazy in his head. Sometime mai-ku take over Captain—like this afternoon, when mai-ku turn Captain into dog." He slid the pilot's flight jacket off.

Murdock didn't even flinch when Lin Duk set the broken bone in his wrist. He was almost too stoned to even feel curious…almost. "My…coo?" he quietly inquired, in slow motion.

"My people most superstitious," Lin ashamedly confessed and began splinting the break. "Fear evil spirits very much indeed. Mai-ku are powerful evil spirits. Colonel know that guards leave Captain most alone if guards think Captain controls power over mai-ku. As Lin say Colonel Smith one smart cookie!" He finished tying his makeshift sling in place. "There! Lin fix Captain's wrist good as new!" he proudly declared. Lin Duk saw that he had finished just in time, because the prisoner was beginning to feel again. And, it looked like the first thing he felt was sad. "Something wrong, Captain?"

"Colonel Smith can't walk, Lyn. Hell, he can't even stand. And, I don't have enough 'brawn' to carry him around with one arm. And, he's getting sicker and sicker. Colonel Smith'll be dead by the time my wrist really is good as new."

Lin saw tears form in the Captain's eyes and watched them as they ran silently down his sadder than sad face. His own eyes watered. "Lin ask Faceman what is 'brawn'. Faceman say 'brawn' is what the B. in B.A. Baracus stands for. Lin still does not know what is 'brawn'."

"What's a faceman?"

Lin Duk's countenance brightened. "Faceman is Army Lieutenant. He very smart cookie also. Faceman help Lin with homework Colonel Smith give…" his words trailed off and his expression turned gloomy.

"What's a bee ay bear ack us?"

Lin's mood lifted again. "B.A. Baracus is Faceman's friend. One very mean very tough very tall Army Sergeant. Most unpleasant fellow to first meet. But most pleasant fellow to have as friend."

Murdock's expression suddenly lightened somewhat, as well. "Lynduck, you may have just come up with a solution to my problem. I'll have to borrow some 'brawn', to make up for what the General took away. Is there any way for me to meet this Bee Ay guy?"

"Not easy. Easier for Lin to give him message."

"No. Before I can chance sending him messages, I gotta meet with him face to face."

"But…why-y?"

"So I can look into his mirrors."

Lin Duk was perplexed. "There are no mirrors in Sergeant's cell…or in any other cell."

"Everyone's got mirrors, Lynduck—even you. Mirrors are eyes. And, a man's eyes...are the mirrors of his soul."

Lin looked totally mystified and then thoughtful. "English most difficult language. Mirrors are eyes. But Lin still not know what is 'brawn'."

The Captain was forced to smile.

Lin Duk suddenly remembered something. "Captain still want Lin to give Colonel message?"

"More than ever, Lynduck…more than…ever," Murdock mumbled, sleepily. With all of his painful distractions being kept away, by the keiphue, exhaustion overwhelmed him—and he welcomed it. "Thanks…Lyn…duck," his voice trailed off, as he drifted off.

"Captain most welcome," Lin assured the now peaceful looking POW. He eased the soundly sleeping prisoner down onto the floor and then covered him with his flight jacket.

Lin then gathered everything back into his basket and left, to go give Colonel Smith Captain Murdock's mysterious message about 'brains' and 'brawn'.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

In the last two cubicles on Captain Murdock's side of cell block A, two gentlemen stood, each in his own, private little prison.

Sergeant B.A. Baracus and Lieutenant Templeton Peck were leaning lazily against, and hanging haphazardly onto, the bars of their cells, gazing disinterestedly down at the dirty wooden floorboards of the building's empty center aisle…and looking completely bored out of their gourds!

"Hey, Face, man?" Baracus suddenly called out, sounding every bit as bored as he looked.

Peck winced. "I wish you'd stop saying that."

"Sayin' what, man?"

"Face, man. Can't you just say, 'Hey, Face'?"

"What's the difference, man?"

"The difference i-is, now you got Lin Duk thinking that my name is 'Faceman'."

"So what, man?"

"So-o, I don't like being called 'Faceman'. It gives me the creeps. And, besides being creepy, it makes me sound like some character out of a comic book. You know, like 'Spiderman'… 'Elasticman'…"

"'Superman'," Baracus quickly contributed and rattled the bars of his cell so hard, he very nearly unhinged them.

"I mean, how would _you_ like being called 'B.A.man'?"

"You kin call me anything yah like," the Sergeant lightly informed him. "Jes' so long as yah _smile_ when yah say it," he added conditionally…and smiled when he said it.

The Lieutenant smiled when he heard that.

Their smiles faded fast, as another American POW suddenly appeared.

The young—judging by his flight jacket—pilot came sniffing down the center aisle on three paws—er, his right hand and knees. His jacket's left sleeve hung empty. His splinted left forearm was in a makeshift sling, which he kept clutched tightly to his chest.

Their visitor kept his nose to the floor, and paused, here and there, to cautiously sniff the air. The 'puppy pilot' worked his way over to the Sergeant's cell. His gaze riveted upon a pair of really big boots, and his nose froze—right in mid sniff. The kid followed a pair of really big legs—right on up to a pair of really big mirrors. His own eyes widened and his jaw dropped. There, standing in the cell before him, was the biggest, most meanest looking 'brawn' he'd ever seen in his entire life! He stared into the mountainous man's moody mirrors for a few moments.

B.A.'s dark eyes grew even darker. "What you starin' at, fool?" he gruffly wondered.

A bit too gruffly, perhaps, at least as far as their visitor was concerned. The 'puppy pilot' let out a fearful yelp and then quickly threw it into reverse. He didn't stop retreating until his own boots bumped into the bars of the empty cell across the aisle. The kid crouched down on the filthy floor and then cowered up at the 'most unpleasant fellow to first meet'.

Lieutenant Peck welcomed the break in their boredom. "Lighten up, B.A.," he advised and gave the pitiful, whimpering 'pilot pooch' a sympathetic smile. "Can't you see you're scaring the poor little doggy? It's okay, boy. Sergeant Baracus loves dogs…really he does."

"I love real dogs. That dummy ain' no dog."

"Well, he's certainly not a cat." Face stooped down and reached through the bars of his cell. "Come here, boy," he gently urged. "Come here, fellah," he coaxed again and then whistled and snapped his fingers a few times.

The sudden break in their boredom shifted his attention from the gruff Sergeant to the good-looking Lieutenant with the kind eyes and gentle voice.

"Atta boy," Peck commended as their visitor came crawling cautiously up to him. "Good doggy," he added and gave the oddly behaving fellow an affectionate pat on the head. "Where'd you come from, boy? Are you lost? Huh? You got any doggy tags on you?" he curiously inquired and dug the chain out from under the mutt's shirt collar. "Well, look-ee here," he declared, as two metal tags appeared in his hand. "Murdock…HM…Captain. It says here, that you belong to the Army, Murdock. How 'bout that, B.A…I've always wanted a dog."

Baracus scowled and then growled, "That—he ain' no dog!"

Face completely ignored his unimaginative friend. "Are we supposed to address officers from the 'Doggy Division' by their name…or by their rank?"

The Sergeant's only reply was a rather contemptuous grunt.

"I can't stand the thought of being outranked by a dog," the Lieutenant confessed. "So, I'll just call you by your name," he decided and gave his inferior superior another pat on the head. "What happened to your paw there, Murdock?"

B.A. exhaled an exasperated gasp. "He ain' got no paws, Face! You been here too long, man! You gotta quit treatin' that dummy like a dog! He ain' no dog!"

"He's no dummy, either. Why just look at the way he holds his head up, there…and that intelligent gleam in his eyes."

Murdock gave his kind master a grateful look and then went crawling back over to the Sergeant's cell. "How long have you been here?"

Face's face lit up. "I told you he was intelligent, B.A.. Why, somebody's even taught him to 'speak'."

Baracus ignored his friend's light-hearted comment and glared disgustedly down at the dummy what thought he was a dog. "What's it to yah?"

"I need to know if you have any brawn left?"

The Sergeant stared disbelievingly down at the cocky kid Captain for a few moments. Then he slipped his huge hands through the bars of his cell and formed them into huge fists. "You gonna fin' out soon enuff! Jes' ask one more stupid question! I'm gonna pull you through these here bars an' then I'm gonna break yer other arm!"

Murdock looked both thoughtful and squeamish. "That'll suffice. How would you like to get out of here?"

"How would _you_ like ta git outta here?" Baracus asked right back."Yer really beginnin' ta annoy me, foo—"

"—Now, now, B.A.," his friend suddenly interrupted. "There is a wise old proverb that says: Let speaking dogs speak."

"There ain' no such sayin'! An' he ain' no dog—speakin' or otherwise!"

"Let's just hear him out, okay?" Peck patiently requested of his impatient pal. "Go ahead, Murdock," he encouraged. "Speak!"

Captain Murdock hobbled back over to the more cooperative, but less 'brawny', Lieutenant. "You faceman?"

Face gave the guy in the neighboring cell a 'what did I tell you' glare, which he couldn't see. Then, he turned back to the Captain. "You've obviously been 'speaking' to Lin Duk Koo. I seem to recall _him_ mentioning the word 'brawn' recently, too."

Murdock gazed intently into the kind Lieutenant's trusting mirrors for a few moments and then lowered his already whispered voice. "Look, I know of a way outta this place…alive. But, I'm gonna need some help to pull it off," he added and held his broken arm up.

"Yeah…well…B.A. and I—we're a team," the Lieutenant informed him. "We come as a matched set. Wherever he goes, I go. Wherever I go he goes…amigos—together."

Their visitor took the hint and looked thoughtful. If the Colonel's plan could be modified to handle two or three, then why not four? "Okay. I don't have time to give you all the details now. Lyn is keeping the guards distracted for me. He says you guys can get out of your cells anytime you want. That true?"

Face found himself nodding.

"Great! Then, if you two amigos are interested in gettin' outta here, meet me out in the compound, the next rainy night we get. If you're not interested, let me know by this afternoon…and I'll just hafta find my 'brawn' elsewhe—"

"—If Lin Duk Koo ever gits in trouble on accoun' a you," B.A. angrily interrupted, "you gonna hafta fin' yer brain elsewhere, too! Cuz I'm gonna knock yer fool head off!" he vowed and emphasized his threat—er, promise by giving his prison bars another potentially unhinging rattle.

The 'canine Captain' turned tail and went yelping off down the center aisle, just as fast as his one-handed two-knee'ed shuffle could carry him.

Peck watched the doggy disappear. "Now, what did you have to go and do that for?" he wondered, sounding tremendously disappointed.

"Cuz I had enuff a' that crazy fool an' 'is crazy notions, that's why!"

"What's so crazy about wanting to get out of here?"

"You kiddin', man? You cain' be serious? Meetin' that fool in the compound in the rain? Man, that gotta be the craziest thing I ever heard a'!"

"I probably would have said the same thing—a couple of weeks ago. But _now_, the notion doesn't sound so crazy. And, I guarantee it'll sound even less crazy to me tomorrow…and the next day…and the day after that. If I'm still here to hear it, that is…"

"What you talkin' about, man? Course you be here—unless Nixon git us outta here, by then…"

"That's just it. How long before Nixon comes through for us, B.A.? A month? Two months? Six months? A year? Two years? There might be something left of you by then. But I won't be around that long. I'll bet I've lost over twenty pounds, already. And, if you'll recall, there wasn't really all that much of me to lose, to begin with."

There was a long, solemn silence.

"There ain' no escapin' this place, Face," Baracus finally came back. "Least ways, not _alive_, there ain't. That sucker was jes' jivin' us, man. We almos' five hundred miles behin' enemy lines. Even if that talkin' dog kin git us outta this camp, how we ever gonna git back ta our lines? I'm tellin' yah, that were jes' a bunch a' jive! We be better off ta wait. You'll see. We wait long enuff an' Nixon'll git us all outta here."

"Captain Murdock is not a dog, B.A.," the Lieutenant teased. "But, if that particular part of his plan perplexes you, perhaps Lin Duk can be persuaded to fill in a few of the missing pieces for us."

"You definitely been here too long, Face. Yer min' is missin' pieces. Yer brain's gone all screwy, man."

"I haven't been here too long…yet. I can still stand and I can still walk. And, while I still can, I'm going to go for it. With, or without, you."

Another solemn silence ensued.

"I don't have anything to lose, B.A.. And, if you're right about having nothing to gain…well…getting shot trying sure beats just sitting here…slowly dying—of starvation and boredom—hands down!"

The Sergeant stood there, staring sadly down at those filthy floorboards again. He was sick a' jes' standin' there…starin' down at them floorboards. The question now was…was he sick ta _death_ a' starin' down at them boards? No. But he soon would be, if his friend wasn' standin' there…starin' down at them with him. "Man, I kin jes' see it all now," he grumbled disgustedly. "We prob'ly git shot standin' out there in that compound…in the rain…while that crazy Colonel try ta talk us all outta here with some a' that fancy Shakespeare a' his, or somethin'!"

Face's face lit up again. "We-e? Does that mean you're in?"

"What kin' a' fool question is that? Course I'm in! We a team, ain' we?" Baracus reached his brawny right arm around the wall and stuck his hand through the bars of his friend's cell.

"A team!" Peck agreed with a grin, and slapped his amigo's open palm.

B.A.'s own grin vanished, as some mad motorist began laying loudly on his horn.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

B.A. was jolted back to reality by another annoyingly loud blast of a car horn.

He looked up and saw that the light had, indeed, changed.

The van's driver heard Murdock moaning in the back and gave both of his unconscious team mates a quick, concerned check in his rear view mirror, before finally driving on.

He and HM's rather rough relationship had come a long way—a long 'ruff' way—since that day he and Face had first been visited by the crazy, talkin' dog.

But, Baracus realized he still had a real bad attitude when it came to tolerating the Captain's crazy foolishness. And, that bad attitude of his had almost got Murdock killed!

The Sergeant silently resolved to do better.

Jes' cuz Murdock was crazy didn' mean his fool notions were always crazy. Hadn' Face an' Hannibal been tryin' ta tell him that—for years?

The big guy vowed that, next time HM spoke, he was gonna listen to 'im—no matter how crazy or foolish his notions might soun'. Yes, sir! From now on, B.A. would stan' for Better Attitude!

Guilt gripped him again and he gripped the steering wheel tighter, as Murdock let out another pitiful moan. "Cain't yah give 'im somethin' for the pain?"

The paramedic pulled his stethoscope from his ears and glanced up. "He's in great shape," he reassuringly replied. "He's just a little delirious from his medication, is all."

Murdock moaned again.

B.A.'s feelings of guilt intensified. "He sure soun's like he's hurtin' ta me!"

There was only one thing more annoying than a back seat driver, as far as the firefighter was concerned, and that was a front seat paramedic. "Then he must be having a painful dream," Gage stated defensively, "because he's too far out of it to be feeling anything physically."

The van's driver looked even more concerned.

The paramedic's diagnosis was correct. His delirious patient was having an extremely painful dream.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Lin Duk Koo entered the 'executive suite'. He had traded his wooden basket for a metal tray. On the tray were small wooden bowls filled with boiled rice and chunks of freshly baked bread, and tall, metal cups filled with cool, clear water.

Lin stepped quickly down the center aisle of A-block, depositing one of his bowls and one of his cups through the bars of each occupied cell.

When he reached Captain Murdock's cell, he set his tray down and made a big fuss over arranging the remaining cups and bowls just so.

The young pilot got stiffly to his feet and stepped up to the front of his prison to shoot Lin Duk a questioning look.

"Lieutenant Peck and Sergeant Baracus say for Lin to tell Captain Murdock that he's got himself a team," Koo announced in a hushed tone.

Murdock's face radiated relief, but then, quickly filled with concern again. "What about Colonel Smith? What did he say when you gave him my message?"

Lin's countenance turned extremely gloomy and he carefully avoided the prisoner's eyes—er, mirrors. "Colonel say nothing. Colonel not hear message. Colonel not eat. Colonel not drink. Colonel Smith not live much longer," he bitterly summed up.

Captain Murdock's expression turned equally—if not more—gloomy and his empty stomach knotted up. "I've got to see him, Lyn. I've got to convince 'brains' to hang on…just a little longer. It's bound to rain, sooner or late—" he stopped speaking and swallowed hard. "I've got to see him, Lyn…got to talk to him…tonight. Can you arrange that for me?"

Lin set a cup of water down at the Captain's feet and then stood there, looking thoughtful and sad…very, very sad. "Lin shall leave ladder against pole for Captain to climb," he softly replied and stashed a skeleton key into one of his bowls of boiled rice. "Please, be most careful, Captain," he solemnly advised. Then he reached through the bars and placed _the_ bowl in the concerned young man's good right hand.

Murdock radiated relief again and gave the guy who was on everyone's side a grateful smile and nod of assurance—both of which went unnoticed.

Lin continued to avoid any eye contact with the Colonel's young friend. He retrieved his tray and then quickly left, to complete his rounds.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Murdock found himself out in the compound in the moonlight—again.

The young pilot was perched precariously upon the heavy, wooden ladder, which Lin Duk Koo had so kindly left leaning up against the cross pole of the 'clothesline' for him.

Colonel Smith's moonlit body hung, motionless, beside him.

"Colonel? Colonel, it's me…Murdock!" the Captain called out for the nth time, and for the nth time got no reaction what-so-ever from the unconscious officer.

He knew now why Lin wouldn't look him in the eye. Lin didn't want him to see the look of hopelessness, which he knew would be reflected in his mirrors.

Murdock was about to acknowledge the hopelessness of his midnight mission himself, when he suddenly got an idea. He splashed some of the icy water from the cup in his hand into the passed out prisoner's impassive face, and poured some of it down the back of his neck.

Voila! The now semiconscious Colonel began gasping and moaning and tossing his hot, sweaty head from side to side.

The young pilot repeated the procedure. Then, he pressed the cup up to his fellow prisoner's parched lips and forced a swallow or two down the panting man's equally parched throat. "Colonel Smith? Colonel, are you in there?"

Hannibal choked and coughed and groaned and—at the sound of the Captain's voice—snapped his eyes open. He blinked his blurred vision clear and riveted his groggy gaze upon his moonlit visitor. "Wha—" he swallowed hard and made an attempt at clearing his throat. The cup was pressed to his cracked lips again and he took several more swallows of its cool, refreshing contents. He choked and coughed and groaned again, and then made another attempt to clear his throat and communicate. "What're you…doing here?" he wondered, in a barely audible whisper. "Too…dangerous…You...shouldn't have…risked it…" his whispered words trailed off and his steadily drooping eyelids closed completely.

"Colonel? Colonel, you still here?"

Hannibal managed a slight smile and nodded. "How's…the wrist?"

"Broken," his visitor glumly replied. "But, better—thanks to Mr. Koo and his 'keep away' concoction."

"Better go...easy on that stuff, kid," the Colonel advised, "if you care at all…about the life expectancy…of your liver."

"Why-y?" the 'kid' nervously inquired. "What's in it?"

"I've never seen the lab reports…but you can bet the recipe reads something like…eye of newt…wing of bat…acid of battery," his voice trailed off again and he managed another slight smile.

Murdock forced a sad smile himself. "The General didn't seem to care too much for your apology, Colonel."

The Captain's gross understatement caused Hannibal to grin outright. "There's just no pleasing…some people."

Murdock's smile broadened for a moment. But then, the kid's expression quickly sobered. "Thanks for savin' my life, Colonel. Lyn told me what that apology meant to you."

"It didn't mean anything…to me, Captain," the Colonel corrected and continued to smile. "But, it meant enough to the General…to keep me alive…all this time," his smile faded fast. He winced in pain and began gasping and groaning and tossing his hot, sweaty head again.

Captain Murdock poured the last of his reviving elixir down the moaning man's throat and the gasping stopped—for the moment.

"They were…They were going…to beat me to death," the Colonel quietly explained. "All that apology did…was buy me some time…some time…to come up with…a plan." His eyes slowly reopened. "How much time?" he wondered in a whisper. "How long…_has_ it been?"

"Seven weeks, today," his fellow prisoner reluctantly informed him.

The prisoner's tired, moonlit eyes filled with amazement. "Seven weeks?…Too long," he sadly determined, "…too long," he repeated and his burning eyes closed.

Murdock blinked his own blurring vision clear and quickly changed the subject. "Lyn also told me what you told the guards. You know, about me and the my coo?"

The Colonel's slight smile returned. "I trust it didn't lose too much…in the translation?"

"Colonel, I come from a long line a' Methodists."

Hannibal's slight smile broadened into a grin, again. "Yes…well…even Methodists can be a real menace…if you get 'em mad enough."

The kid gave the Colonel's manacled wrists a glum glance. "Oh, I'm mad all right! Howlin' mad! As in angry—not as in insane. You don't really believe the Captain has gone most crazy in his head, do you, Colonel?"

"I told you, it doesn't matter what others be—" 

"—It matters, Colonel. Maybe not what others believe. But, it matters what you believe."

The officer's eyes fluttered open. "In that case…I believe, Captain Murdock…that when it comes to escaping…and getting out of tight spots…I believe that you could teach the great Houdini himself…a few things." His slight smile reappeared. "You were positively brilliant, Captain…and Billy didn't do too badly, either."

The 'positively brilliant' young pilot looked positively radiant. He gave his companion a look that was a combination of admiration and respect. "Must be the company I keep, Colonel," he reasoned lightly.

Hannibal returned the look. "Thanks for not talking."

"Thanks _for_ talking," the Captain quickly countered. Then he balanced the empty cup on an empty rung and used his freed good hand to pull a chunk of freshly baked bread out of his sling. "I came out here tonight to see if I could convince you to try some of this," he proclaimed and held the mouth-watering morsel up to the dangling man's mouth.

The Colonel winced and closed his eyes—to block out the very sight of it.

His companion gasped in frustration. "C'mon, Colonel! You've got to eat something!"

"Sorry…But I believe the batteries…just went dead…in my hearing aid."

Murdock exhaled another exasperated gasp. "Plea-ease?"

No response.

"Pretty plea-ease?"

Still nothing.

"Pretty please with sugar on the end of—?"

"—Save your breath…I couldn't eat that…Not even on a bet…And I have been known to eat…just about anything…on a bet…When I was nine…Bobby Lexington bet me his crystal crockie…that I couldn't eat…a live earthworm…Before the day was out…I had half the marbles in town…Of course…I did have to give half of them back…because I couldn't…keep…them all down…And afterwards…I was sick for a—"

"—COLONEL?" the Captain interrupted, sounding every bit as perturbed as he appeared to be. "This is serious! Now…You've got to eat, to keep your strength up!"

"I have no strength left…to keep up…And, I have no appetite…I can't eat that…and I can't climb topside anymore…to answer the call of natur—"

"—Then you've got to eat, to get your strength back!" the young pilot impatiently interrupted.

The delirium fled from Hannibal's face, for the moment, and his eyes snapped back open. "Oh really?" he cautiously inquired. "And why is that?"

"Because we're **both** getting out of here!"

The hanging prisoner's sad, tired eyes watered again. "You're right there, Captain," he softly agreed. "We're both getting out of here, all right…We'll just be taking different routes, is all," he sadly added and allowed his drooping lids to drop once more.

Murdock's vision was blurring again, too. "No, Colonel! You can go the same way I go! We can leave together!"

"Forget it, kid…I'm helping…not hindering…your escape…remember?"

But, the 'kid' was as determined as his fellow prisoner was stubborn. "I'm not givin' up on you, Colonel. And I'm not gonna let you give up on yourself, either. You've hung on for so long and come so far…if you can just hold on a little while long—"

"—Sometimes circumstances get beyond our control, Captain…We don't always get to pick and choose…our routes and destinations…Believe me…this wouldn't have been…my first choice…or second…or third…or—"

"—Who's determined your route for you, Colonel? I mean, you haven't seen a doctor, have you?"

"You don't need a psychiatrist to tell you you're crazy…and you don't need a doctor to tell you you're dying…Besides…we all have to travel that route…sooner or later."

"Yeah? Well…then you'll just have to travel it some other time! Cuz, you ain't dyin', yet! Not here! Not like this!"

"I'm already dead."

"You are, most definitely, not 'already dead'! You're still breathin'! And you are, most definitely, not an 'empty shell'! Cuz Jack's not dead, either! He's just hiding—right in there," he tapped the Colonel's chest a couple of times.

John Howard Smith's eyes fluttered open.

Murdock saw that the old man's mirrors were once again filled with an unbearable sadness. "That's right," the Captain quietly continued. "Jack is alive. In fact, he was just here the other night. I heard him quoting Shakespeare. Jackie's in there, too. I could see her reflection in your mirrors…every time you spoke about her. You _can_ make it through this, Colonel! You just gotta hang in there…just a little while longer."

Hannibal closed his sad, burning eyes. "I'm dying…You're dying…Everybody's checking out of the big supermarket of life…But when you start coughing up blood…and your head starts throbbing two beats faster than your heart…which isn't beating quite right…and when every breath…starts lending new meaning…to the word excruciating and…your body can't decide whether it wants to sweat or shiver…so it starts doing both at the same time…Well…that's when you start to realize…you're standing in the 'Express' check out lane…10 items or less…cash only…and no waiting."

The Captain exhaled another gasp of utter exasperation. "Then pretend there are twenty people in line ahead of you, because I just found us some 'brawn'! And now, we're only one rainy night away from vacating Charlie's 'hotel'!"

Hannibal swallowed hard. "Bra-awn?"

"Yeah! A whole team of it!"

"A whole team?…Exactly how many guys…are in on this plan, Captain?"

"There's just the four of us, Colonel."

The feverish officer winced. "Just the four of us?" he numbly repeated. "The plan was designed…for an individual, Captain…Not a whole team…of individuals."

"Don't worry, Colonel. Your plan is like a finely tailored suit. It can take a few alterations and still keep its basic shape."

Hannibal was forced to smile. "Yeah…well…Keep it up…and you're going to have to…commandeer a bus…instead of the girlfriend's…tiny, little sports ca—" he stopped speaking, as series of muscle spasms racked his badly dehydrated body. He grimaced and gritted his teeth. "Last one to escape…is a rotten egg!" he challenged, between gasps and groans. "Vaya…con dios…Captain," he wished, in a whisper. Then his feverish head fell forward and he was motionless once more.

"Colonel?…COLONEL?" the Captain shouted a second time.

But the guy hanging in the 'Express' check out lane of the big supermarket of life could no longer hear him.

Murdock looked up into the moonlit sky and started praying for rain…and, for a four-way tie for first, in the 'rotten egg' contest.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

In the back of B.A.'s moving van, the firefighter p.m. had his hands full.

His gunshot patient was thrashing around and calling for some 'colonel'.

The guy with the congested lungs was regaining consciousness and gagging on his airway.

Gage reluctantly released his grip on his shooting victim and pulled the non-re-breather mask from the silver-gray haired guy's face. He gave the little plastic device, that was keeping the patient's airway open, a careful twist and then slid it from his choking throat.

Hannibal, who'd been propped up against the side of the van, in a near sitting position, heard Murdock calling him and struggled to sit up all the way.

"Hey, take it easy," John advised and gripped his stirring patient's shoulders, in an attempt to keep him from rising. "We'll have you at the clinic in just a few more minutes," he calmly added.

Hannibal found the fireman's words far from calming.

"It's okay. You'll be safe there," Gage reassured his panic-stricken patient and attempted to replace his oxygen mask.

The A-Team's Commander cleared his feverish brain, and then his fuzzy vision, and, finally, his unbelievably dry throat. "What clinic?" he demanded and knocked the breathing mask away.

"The Free Clinic over on—"

"—Thanks!" Hannibal interrupted and struggled even harder to sit up. "But, I've already been to one Free Clinic today, and one's my limit."

Murdock called for him again.

Smith gave his caretaker the sort of look a she-grizzly might give, to someone who'd just come between her and one of her cubs.

The paramedic saw the look and released him.

"At ease, Murdock," Hannibal advised and attempted, once more, to rise. He winced and reached for his bruised and bandaged, throbbing, hot and sweaty forehead. "I SAID, AT EASE, CAPTAIN!" he sternly repeated, and scooted a bit closer to the requester of his presence. "Before you wreck my nice bandaging job and start your shoulder bleeding again," he continued, slipping back into his usual soft-spoken voice.

The sound of that voice had an incredibly calming effect on Murdock and he obediently stopped thrashing about.

Smith's voice had just the opposite effect on the van's driver. "Hey, Hannibal? You okay?" Baracus anxiously called back over his shoulder.

"Face's place—on the double, B.A.!" The A-Team's Commander calmly called back. "We'd better check on his status, next!" Hannibal caught a glimpse of the big guy's anxiety-filled face, in the van's rear view mirror. "I'm fine, Sergeant…for now," he tacked on under his breath and then turned his attention to the motionless member of their team. "Are you in there, Captain?"

Murdock was still lying face down on the floor of the van. A smile slowly appeared on his still somewhat pale face. "I'm here, Colonel," he softly assured his Commander. "And, so are _you_," he relievedly added.

Hannibal returned his smile and gripped his good shoulder, reassuringly. "I'm here. You're here. B.A. and Amy are here. Everyone's here but Face—" he stopped suddenly and changed the subject. "Feeling any better?"

"Actually, Colonel," Murdock groggily replied, "I'm not feeling anything…at all." He forced one eye open, a crack. "But I could be feeling better…a whole lot better…if you were to check yourself in to that Free Clinic…immediately, if not sooner…sir."

"Sorry. But I never abandon a client in the middle of a case. Maybe once all the members of this team are present and accounted for."

The Captain was confused. Was B.A. right, after all? Was The A-Team really on a case? "What client is that, Colonel?"

"Why, The A-Team, of course! I would never even consider working for anyone else at a time like this. Would you?"

Murdock managed a sad smile and a slight shake of his head. Then his eye closed and he was perfectly still.

Hannibal shot their medic an anxious glance.

Gage gave his still patient a quick, but thorough, once over. "He's just asleep. Sleep's the best thing for him, right now."

Smith looked relieved and started getting stiffly to his unsteady feet.

John latched onto his pneumonia victim's wrist and tried to keep him from rising. "It would do you a world of good, right now, too."

"Sleep is a luxury I can't afford, at the moment."

"Then you might want to consider making payments," Gage solemnly advised and gazed even more solemnly down at his notepad. "BP 160/80, marked shortness of breath, secondary to hypoxemia, with pronounced bilateral rales and increasing tachycardia with a heart rate of—"

"—The patient is much improved," Hannibal interrupted and pulled his wrist free. He got shakily to his feet. "Thanks, I'm sure, to your care and medical expertise." He flashed the fireman an appreciative smile and tried his best to at least appear completely recovered.

But paramedics know all about how deceiving a person's appearance can be. John stared skeptically up at his seemingly revived victim. "A little oxygen must go a long way with you," he shrewdly reasoned.

The Colonel caught the sarcasm in the paramedic's voice. "Yeah," he agreed, sounding equally sarcastic. "It's a real gas."

Gage winced in mental anguish at his vertical victim's pun.

The two men came to an unspoken agreement of some sort and then sealed the deal with slight smiles.

John quickly switched the non-re-breather mask for a nasal canula. "Here. You'd better keep this with you," he advised and passed his pneumonia patient the bright orange case, containing his oxygen. "The way your lungs are congested, you could pass out again at any moment."

Hannibal hesitated to take it.

"You've already got one nasty bump on your head. And, one should be your limit for those, too."

The patient was forced to smile. "Good point," Hannibal paused to read the paramedic's plastic nametag. Something suddenly occurred to him and the smile fled from his face. He motioned for FF PM John Gage to pass him his notepad and pen.

John did, and then watched as the silver-gray haired guy quickly scribbled something down. The notepad was pressed up to his face and he read the message. 'This van may be bugged. So be careful what you say.' Gage gave the message's author a solemn nod of acknowledgement.

Hannibal pocketed the notebook. Then his smile returned and he extended a hand. "John 'Hannibal' Smith," he confidently introduced. "Nice to have you onboard. It's also nice to know that some medicine men are still willing to make house—er, van calls. I hope that we won't be keeping you too terribly busy."

"Glad to be aboard," John assured the head Zorro and attempted to free himself from the man's firm, confident handshake. But the paramedic's appendage remained locked in John 'Hannibal' Smith's vice-like grip and his mirrors remained locked under the guy's unnerving gaze. The fireman decided to try for an exchange—the O2 case in his left hand, for the release of his crushed right hand.

Hannibal's confident smile broadened into a confident grin. He gave the fireman his grin and finally accepted the oxygen. Then he let the paramedic have his hand back, but kept his notepad and pen.

The A-Team's Commander turned and went stumbling up to the front of the moving vehicle. He collapsed into the van's passenger seat, pulled the paramedic's notepad from his pocket and held his message up for the Sergeant to see.

Baracus gave the message and its holder a couple of quick glances, the message—a skeptical one, its holder—a worried one. "You sure yer' okay, Hannibal? You lef' a mighty big crack in that sidewalk back there."

It was the Colonel's turn to look skeptical. "How far to Face's?" he wondered, just to change the subject.

"If the lights is with us, we oughtta be there in five."

Hannibal saw the Sergeant's mouth forming another question and quickly clicked on the radio.

"_That was Michael Jackson_," the DJ announced, "_Winner of 8 Grammy Awards. And we'll be hearing more cuts from Michael's record making, record breaking 'Thriller' album, right after this message—_"

The DJ cut out and a lone bugle began blowing a cavalry charge. It blew the command three times.

Then, a super-sexy sounding woman came over the airwaves, and began urging people to, "_Cha-arge on down to Perkins Pizza Parlor! Where, for a limited time only, you can purchase a medium-sized eggplant and onion pizza, for only $12.99! That's right, just $12.99! So, check the Yellow Pages for the Perkins Pizza Parlor nearest you! And then, cha-arge on down!_"

The bugle came back on and blew 'charge' one final time.

Hannibal smiled satisfiedly and flicked the radio off.

Baracus glanced incredulously at the creator of the Perkins ad. Man, only Hannibal could come up with _eggplant and onion_? pizza! The Sergeant suddenly remembered something and glanced solemnly at the 'ad man' again. "Hey, Hannibal…about before—"

"—It's already forgotten, B.A.," Smith assured him. The pneumonia patient got his oxygen tubing untangled and his nasal canula in place. He drew several deep breaths of pure oxygen into his lungs, through his nostrils, coughed a couple of times and then lightly added, "Besides, being a member of The A-Team means never having to say you're sorry."

B.A. remained solemn. "I know I don' hafta say it. I want ta say it. I want you ta know that I never thought fer a moment that you would ever betray us. I know you would die fers'."

"I know you know that, B.A.," his Commander came back, sounding every bit as solemn. "That's why it's already forgotten. Too bad Lynch didn't know that you and I know that. He could have saved himself a lot of trouble. I mean, he obviously went to great lengths, to make you think that I had. In fact, he was probably hoping that that would be your dying thought."

"Yeah? Well then, that jes' goes ta show yah how _dumb_ that Lynch sucker really is!" B.A. loudly declared…plenty loud enuff for any hidden 'bugs' that might be aboard.

The two A-Team members glanced at each other and grinned.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Five minutes away—at Face's place…well, the place next door to his place, actually, 'Rodney Brentwood' stepped off of a private elevator and into a luxuriously furnished eight-room apartment, on the top floor of the Paisley Towers.

'Mr. Brentwood' had two sacks of groceries in his arms. He lugged them down a long hallway and into a spacious kitchen. "Well, this is the last of 'em, Aggie," he relievedly announced and set his very heavy burdens down on a counter, beside six other identical paper bags, and a radio, upon which Michael Jackson kept insisting that he was _not_ Billie Jean's kid's daddy.

"Inside these eight sacks are all the fixings necessary to make 280 tasty tacos." He got a few kinks out of his back and turned to the little gray-haired grandmotherly-looking lady, standing at his side. "Now, all we got to do is 'fix' 'em. C'mon, I'll help you unpack," he volunteered and flashed his co-cook a warm smile.

Agnes Paisley was tremendously pleased. "Thank you so much, Rodney, dear! Honestly, now that my Albert's gone, I don't think I would've had the gumption to pull it off, this year…if it hadn't been for your kind offer to help." She gave the handsome young man's arm an affectionate squeeze.

'Rodney dear' placed his hand over hers and patted it a few times. "Somehow, Aggie, I think you would've pulled it off just fine, with or without my assistance. Still, I'm glad you accepted my offer. And, in appreciation of tomorrow night's 'Terrific Tenants' Taco Party'," he pulled a package of steaks and a bottle of imported wine from one of the bags, "This terrific tenant intends to throw his own 'Lovely Landlady's Dinner Party' tonight."

His lovely landlady was completely overwhelmed. "That's very sweet of you, dear. But I don't want you to go through anymore bother on my account."

"Bother? What bother? It's just as easy to cook up two steaks as it is one."

"Well then, at least let me do the cooking. I'll just toss them in the oven with some baking potatoes, and they can cook while we're unpacking."

"Oven, nothing! These babies are going out on the barbecue on my balcony. And this—" he held up the champagne bottle, "—is going on ice."

Speaking of ice, Michael finished denying his fathering of Billie Jean's kid and a lone bugle began to blow a cavalry 'charge'.

Upon hearing the instrument's very first note, 'Mr. Brentwood' had frozen. He stood there, statue-like, listening to the dreaded 'Perkins' ad. His brows arched and he was forced to smile. Leave it to Hannibal to come up with 'eggplant and onion'? pizza.

Mrs. Paisley gave her slightly panic-stricken companion a wary scrutiny. "Something wrong, dear?" she innocently inquired.

"Something must be wrong," 'Rodney' glumly realized. "Something must be very wrong, indeed! I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for a rain check on our dinner date tonight, Aggie. I'm terribly sorry," he said, in all earnest. 'Mr. Brentwood' gave his lovely landlady the steaks and champagne, along with a kiss on the forehead. "I promise, I'll call you the very first chance I get. Oh, and if you need more room for all this food, feel free to fill my refrigerator. I have this 'feeling' I won't be using it for awhile," he sadly determined and began backing out of the kitchen.

"Wait, Mr. Peck!" Aggie called after him. The woman set their canceled dinner down on the counter and then crossed quickly up to her frozen, fleeing guest.

'Rodney Brentwood' had turned himself into a statue, for the second time in as many minutes. He stood there in her hallway wearing the most astonished look on his handsome face.

Aggie's beautiful hazel eyes got a rather roguish glint in them. "I have this 'feeling' that the old 'eggplant and onion' pizza is about to hit the fan out there, and you shouldn't leave here unarmed. C'mon," she encouraged, and began towing the still stunned A-Team member off down the hall, "I'll loan you my piece."

Face was even more astounded. He took in the woman's sound 'grandmotherly'? advice for a few moments. His gaping mouth closed and then re-opened.

"Save your breath, Mr. Peck," Aggie further advised and flashed the still-stunned fellow a wry smile. "Six months ago, The A-Team rescued a French oceanliner, the Sainte Bisstante, from a group of Iraqi terrorists. The ship's passengers and crew were being held hostage in the middle of the Mediterranean.

Albert had taken me on a Mediterranean Cruise for our 45th wedding anniversary. Yes, Albert and I were on _that_ ship. We were locked in a cabin up on A-Deck. That is, until all the shooting started. Then, Albert broke out and started doing a little shooting of his own."

Mrs. Paisley stepped up to a polished mahogany chest-of-drawers and pulled out a photo album. "Albert was a bit of a camera buff. He captured the whole incredibly exciting thing on film—four full rolls of it!" she added and opened the album, to reveal page after page after page of The A-Team, frozen in fast—and furious—action.

Face's jaw dropped and he was stunned into silence yet once more. He stood there, staring down at all the glossy 4x6 inch photos looking flabbergasted and fascinated, at the same time.

Aggie assumed a reflective pose. "Albert loved it! Said it was the most remarkable, the most magnificent military maneuver he'd ever witnessed! And, my Albert was quite a campaigner!" she proudly tacked on.

Templeton tore his eyes away from the album for an instant. "You have every reason to be proud of him, Aggie. These are incredible pictures, all right," he truthfully confessed. Peck was impressed with both the photographer and his photos…but, especially his photos. He glanced up again, looking puzzled. "Why didn't he ever sell any of these? There are dozens of newspaper and magazine syndicates that would've paid a small fortune for any _one_ of these!"

"Money isn't everything," Aggie informed him. "I shouldn't have to tell _you_ that," she added, with a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Besides, Albert knew that you were all 'wanted' men. He figured you could do without all the publicity these pictures would've stirred up for you. He said that would have been no way to thank you boys for risking your lives to save us from those madmen, and for stopping an international crisis from developing."

Peck glanced up again and gave his lovely landlady a sad smile. "Your Albert sounds like he was quite a guy, Aggie. I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet him."

"So am I," Aggie softly admitted. "He would have liked you." She snatched her purse off of the coffee table, opened it up and pulled out a .45 caliber handgun, and a couple of spare clips. The woman checked the safety and then nonchalantly handed her piece, and the extra ammo, over to Mr. Peck. "You'd better slip out the back way," she suggested and pointed to her private elevator.

Face stared disbelievingly down at the 'grandmotherly'? gun in his hand. "You got a _permit_ to carry this thing?"

The woman's wry smile returned. "That's an odd question, coming from you. And, let's just say that I got my 'permit' the same place Mr. Mugger got his," she sarcastically stated and began ushering the dawdling A-Team member toward her apartment's rear exit.

"Aggie—?"

"—We'll discuss it over dinner some time, dear," Aggie promised and her wry smile broadened into a grin.

The pair reached the elevator.

Aggie pressed the 'Down' button.

The doors slid open and Peck went to step on. But then, he suddenly remembered the photo album in his other hand, and turned around to give it back.

"Keep them," the woman offered. "I have the negatives," she calmly explained.

"Thanks, Aggie," Peck told her. "For the 'piece' a-and the 'pictures'."

Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the apartment's front door. "OPEN UP IN THERE!" a man's angry, muffled voice demanded.

'Or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down,' Face silently tacked on. "It, uh, might be a good idea for you to leave, too, Aggie," he nervously suggested.

Aggie was positively delighted by his offer and immediately took him up on it. "Are you placing me in your protective custody, Mr. Peck?"

"I certainly hope it's _protective_ custody, Aggie," Face said uncertainly. He took the woman's arm in his and escorted her into the elevator. "Acquaintances call me Templeton," he introduced with a warm smile. "And my friends call me 'Face'."

The doors closed and the two friends disappeared.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

The Paisley Towers apartment complex was an elegant, ultra-modern 14-story building, located in one of the quieter, more 'exclusive' neighborhoods of West LA.

B.A. came jogging back up to his van, which was parked in the visitor's lot alongside of the entrance tunnel to the tenant's underground parking lot. "His car's down there all right," he breathlessly reported through the open window of the driver's door, "an' the engine's still warm. But, 'Rodney Brentwood' ain' answerin' 'is door buzzer, or 'is phone. An', there's a big, mean-lookin' dude lurkin' in the basement stairwell. I don' like it, Hannibal…"

Hannibal jotted something down on the paramedic's notepad. Then he tore the top sheet off and presented it to his winded scout.

The Sergeant silently assimilated the note. '_Maybe he went next door to Grandma's House?_' He looked up just in time to receive another. '_C'mon,_' the second message said, '_let's go rescue 'Rodney' before the Big Bad Wolf shows up!_'

Amy Allen had left her car and climbed into the back of the van, to check on Murdock.

The Colonel scribbled one last note on the pad and then tossed it back to her and the fireman.

Gage caught the airborne message and then read it.

The reporter perused the note, as well, over the paramedic's shoulder.

The fireman looked up and nodded.

The girl glanced up and frowned.

Smith slipped out his side door and started heading towards the entrance to the underground parking lot, toting his oxygen case.

B.A. had to jog again, to keep up with the Colonel's brisk strides. "Face ain' got no gran'mother."

"Mrs. Paisley doesn't have a grandson, either. Which is precisely why the two of them decided to adopt each other," Hannibal casually explained. Then he smiled and went on to declare, "I _love_ it when a family comes together!"

Baracus ignored his Commander's corny, but sincere, comment. His eyes narrowed menacingly. "He better not be workin' no scam on no poor little ol' lady, Hannibal!"

Smith's smile broadened. "No one ever scams _poor _ little old ladies, B.A.. He came to scam the guy who's got the penthouse…met Mrs. Paisley…and fell in love—before he found out that she happens to own the building. Or, at least, so he claims. And, for some unknown reason, this very nice—very wealthy—little old lady decided to adopt our little Cabbage Patch Doll. A-And, and you're not going to believe this part, our very own L. Templeton Peck—perhaps **the** greatest habitat hustler in recent history—is actually paying rent for the privilege of inhabiting this particular apartment."

"Yer right. I don' believe it! Payin' rent? Why that goes against the Faceman's religion!"

"It's true. He even showed me his rent receipt. He's thinking of having it framed and mounted. I guess Mrs. Paisley has 'converted' our 'Rodney'."

"Jes' so long as he ain' 'perverted'! Man, only a real pervert would ever even think a' scammin' a little ol' lady!"

They reached the visitor's courtesy caller.

Smith punched in an apartment number and then stood there, pressing the call buzzer. After a reasonable amount of time had elapsed, he punched in another apartment number and pressed the call buzzer again.

"Yeah?" a man's gruff voice demanded. "Who is it?"

Hannibal stared at the wall speaker for a few moments, with arched eyebrows. Then, he hit the send button and sarcastically stated, "Why, Granny…what a gravelly voice you have!" He ended the transmission and turned to his teammate. "You get to take out the big, mean-lookin' dude in the stairwell—and then wait here, in case Face comes down."

The Big Guy frowned and latched onto the Colonel's shoulder, as he turned to leave. "We bes' be stickin' together, Hannibal!"

"I'll yell, if I need back-up," Smith promised and brushed his Sergeant's hand away.

Baracus grabbed him again and spun him around. "Man, you need a full-time back-up jes' ta keep yah on yer feet!"

Hannibal pointed to his nasal canula and then tapped the bright orange case his left hand was clutching. "I've got all the back-up I need, right here."

The Sergeant looked deeply skeptical. "Where you gonna be? Jes' so's I got some idea a' where ta look fer yer body."

Smith grinned at the Big Guy's morbid—but humorous—remarks. "Someone's got to go up and check on the size of _Granny's_ teeth and eyes," he irrationally rationalized.

Baracus looked even more dubious and shook his head in disgust. "There's only one thing more dangerous than you on the jazz, man! An' that's you delirious an**'** on the jazz!"

Hannibal stepped up to the elevator's control panel and pressed the 'UP' button. He turned back in B.A.'s direction and defensively stated, "I am not delirious."

The Sergeant noted that he didn't deny being on the jazz, though. He saw that Hannibal was now smiling that crazy, confident smile of his, and grunted disgustedly.

There was a loud 'ping'.

A few moments later, the elevator doors slid open and The A-Team's Commander disappeared from view.

B.A. smiled and started heading for the stairwell.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

The carpeted elevator car that Smith stepped onto already contained one passenger. 

A mean-looking man with an MP type build was lurking in front of the lift's control panel.

"This _is_ the basement," Hannibal icily announced, when the guy failed to get off. "This thing doesn't get any closer to the ground than this," he added and held the 'DOOR OPEN" button down.

"I've changed my mind," the man calmly replied and quickly pressed **14**.

"You must have read mine," Smith said. He kept his index finger firmly on the button and his unnerving gaze riveted upon his fellow passenger, who was becoming increasingly unnerved. At long last, he released the doors.

They slid shut and the car started up.

"Speaking of real perverts…" the Colonel continued, out of the clear blue. His hand slipped deftly down to the latch on the case at his side. "Why, just this morning, I was reading about this guy who likes to space out on elevators. Imagine! He never gets off…just keeps riding them up…and down…all day long. And then, after o.d.'ing on all those uppers and downers, he lurks in the elevator, just waiting for some poor, hapless soul to get on—all alone. SO'S HE CAN OFF 'IM FOR SOME OUT-TO-LUNCH LOON NAMED LYNCH!" he shouted angrily and slid a mini submachine gun from the bright orange case—that was supposed to contain his 'gas' tank.

His increasingly antsy audience became totally unglued.

"Eh eh eh," Hannibal warned as the guy went for his gun. "You so much as breathe without my permission and I guarantee you're gonna be the only elevator freak in LA with 47 new navels!" He hit the 'EMERGENCY STOP' button and the car lurched to a halt.

The elevator freak froze, as well.

Smith opened the creep's coat and relieved him of his weapon. "Now, where's Peck?" he pondered and pocketed the freak's firearm.

"_He's heading down the landlady's private elevator!_" his prisoner announced rather excitedly, and without moving his lips in the least. "_All units converge on the basement! Repeat, Peck's heading for the basement!_"

"How 'bout that!" Hannibal sarcastically stated. "A pervert and a ventriloquist…all rolled into one big sleazeball!" He pulled the two-way radio from his prisoner's coat pocket. "Tell your scum-buddies out there that somebody's called the cops, and that cops are gonna be crawling all over this place in just a few more seconds. So they'd better split—_pronto_!" he gruffly concluded and pressed the point of his gun into the guy's paunch a little harder, for added emphasis.

The creep with the MP build reluctantly took the radio and even more reluctantly pressed the transmit button. "Attention, all units! This is Unit Two! Someone must've called the cops! Six squad cars just pulled up outside! Abort! I repeat—Abort!"

Hannibal snatched the radio back and slipped it into his vest pocket. "Well done, Unit Two! I was even a little nervous there, for awhile. Now, which manhole cover in LA is that sewer rat hiding under?"

"Colonel Lynch isn't in LA."

"Well then, where _is_ he?"

"He's still in Washington."

"As in 'land of DC' and 'the home of de Pentagon'?"

Unit Two nodded.

"Is Colonel Decker pulling your strings, too?"

Unit Two shook his head.

Hannibal's face scrunched up a might. None of what he was hearing made any sense. He gave his hot, confused head a quick shake and then continued his interrogation. "Where are you supposed to meet Lynch for the big pay off?"

Unit Two shrugged his shoulders. "He was going to contact us this evening with further instructions."

"Where'd Lynch get all the lowdown on us?"

Unit Two shrugged again.

Hannibal grabbed the guy by his shirt collar and got up in his face. "How did Lynch know where to find us?" he re-inquired, through tightly clenched teeth.

"I don't know! I swear I don't know! He only contacted us once, and that was by phone."

"So, who gave you the tape to play to the answering machine this afternoon?"

"I don't know nothin' about no tape and no answering machine! I've told you everything I know!"

Hannibal released his grip on the guy's throat and canceled the 'EMERGENCY STOP'.

The car resumed its ascent.

Smith saw that they were about to reach their destination. "Just out of curiosity…What's the going rate for a military assassin these days?"

Unit Two adjusted his collar and straightened his tie. "We're not getting paid. At least, not in cash. Lynch has something on each of us. I guess you could call it 'exterminating for extortion'," he reasoned, morbidly.

"Or 'blasting for blackmail'," Hannibal added, getting into the grim swing of things.

There was a loud 'ping' and the doors opened up onto the 14th floor.

Smith motioned with his gun for his fellow passenger to disembark.

The aborted extorted exterminator obediently stepped out into the hall.

Hannibal held the 'DOOR OPEN' button down again. "I tell you what…You go back and tell all the other little units that, if they promise to stop blasting at The A-Team, The A-Team will promise to stop Lynch from blackmailing you. Fair enough?"

Unit Two thought the reasonable proposal over for a few moments, and then nodded.

"Goo-ood! Now, if you, or any of your other little units, decide to _keep_ blasting at us, me and my guys are going to come down on you so hard—it'll make Lynch blackmailing you seem like a Sunday barbecue! Know what I mean?"

Unit Two gave him another nod.

"Great! Oh, by the way, how were you going to do me in?"

Unit Two shrugged again. "We weren't assigned to assassinate you."

Hannibal was somewhat disappointed. But then, he brightened again and finally lifted his finger up from the 'DOOR OPEN' button. "Last one to converge on the basement is a rotten egg!" he challenged with a broad, confident grin and pressed '**B**'.

The doors slid shut and the car began to descend.

And so did its remaining passenger.

Hannibal's grin had vanished as soon as the doors had closed. His gun arm dropped limply to his side. Then he fell back against the wall and started slumping slowly to the floor. His 'gas' gauge read empty again. Oh well, at least this time the surface he landed on was carpeted.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

The descending elevator reached the basement level. 

There was another loud 'ping'.

Its barely conscious passenger was now lying face down on its carpeted floor.

Hannibal heard the 'ping' and somehow managed to heave himself back up onto his hands and knees. He gave his dizzy head a few shakes and tried to keep running on 'fumes'.

The doors slid open.

The missing member of their team appeared, along with his supporters.

B.A. was holding 'Rodney' up on his right, and a lovely little old lady, who had to be Face's 'grandmother', was assisting him on his left.

The Lieutenant stood there between them, hunched over and hurting.

"**Ahhh-nahhh, Hannibal**!" Face and B.A. groaned together, as they spotted their collapsed Commander on the floor of the car.

Hannibal retrieved his weapon and started crawling toward their injured teammate. He managed to exit the elevator just in time. If he had lingered even just one moment longer, the doors would have closed on his ankles.

"Not agin!" Baracus further bemoaned.

"You look even worse than I feel," Face informed the guy on all fours, between grimaces and gasps. An involuntary groan escaped from Peck's tightly pursed lips as his right supporter gently lowered him to the floor.

"Take it easy, Lieutenant," the Colonel urged their injured colleague. Then he turned to his still scowling Sergeant. "Bring the van down, B.A.. He should probably be checked out before we try to move him any further."

"What happens if them dudes come back, man?"

"Unit Two and I had a little chat. Hopefully, they're gone for good."

Baracus remained skeptical but obediently turned and went jogging off.

Hannibal crawled right up to his hurting friend. "You'll be okay. Our ride-along medic'll see to that."

"I'll be just fine," Face agreed with another gasp, "in four to six weeks. These busted ribs ought to be mended quite nicely, by then." He stared up at the Colonel in confusion. "The sheriff said Dr. Sullivan wasn't due back from her reunion until Saturday."

"Our medic's name isn't 'Sullivan'. It's 'Gage'. And I thought we had agreed that we weren't going to involve Maggie in anymore of our operations?"

"We did. But Maggie doesn't agree with our little agreement. Ahhh, who were those goons, Hannibal?" his pained associate pondered, in an attempt to change the rather touchy subject.

"Extorted members of the notorious Lynch mob," Hannibal solemnly replied, and allowed the subject to be changed…for the time being.

Peck completely ignored his Commander's confusing comment and continued. "Well, whoever they were, one thing's for sure. They weren't just looking to rough me up a little. They had **bats**, and I believe they had intentions of beating me to death. They would have, too, if it hadn't a' been for you." He gave Smith a look of undying gratitude. "I don't know how you got Unit Two to break up the party like you did. But thanks, Chief!"

Hannibal held up his weapon. "I made him an offer he couldn't refuse," he lightly explained, but then turned glum again. "And, no 'thanks' are necessary. We should've gotten here a few broken ribs sooner. Your chief's timing chain must be slipping." He gripped his hurting friend's shoulder reassuringly. "Now, you just lie still and continue to be 'brave'."

The Lieutenant winced, in mental anguish, at his Chief's corny pun.

Smith finally turned his attention to Face's adopted grandmother.

Agnes Paisley was just standing there, staring silently down at him.

That is, until he flashed her a smile and extended his hand.

"John 'Hannibal' Smith, Mrs. Paisley. 'Rodney' here, speaks very highly of you. It's a real pleasure to finally get to mee—" he stopped speaking, as Mrs. Paisley started slumping to the floor. Hannibal dropped his weapon and caught the collapsing woman under the arms. He laid the little lady down, opened her airway, gave her a careful examination and finally surmised that she had just fainted dead away. He looked up at Face and frowned. "Okay. Give it to me straight. Do I really look **that** bad? Or, do I just need to start using a stronger breath freshener or body deodorant?"

Face was forced to smile. "You're way off, Hannibal…way way off. Aggie's not lying there because she finds you repulsive. Au contraire. Aggie finds you most attractive!"

Smith thought that over for a few moments. Then his frown turned upside-down. "Are you trying to tell me that was a certified _swoon_ we just witnessed here?"

Peck nodded. "The A-Team has finally come of age. Notice how—even now—she keeps our album clutched tightly to her breast."

Hannibal glanced down.

Though unconscious, the woman's fingers continued to keep a firm grip on both the .45 and the book in her hands.

Smith's brows arched. "Ou-our album? You mean…?"

Face managed an even broader smile and another nod. "Aggie is our group's first, and probably only, groupie."

Hannibal carefully pried the album from their groupie's firm grip and started flipping through its fascinating pages. "He-ey…Far out! I _love_ looking at pictures of a plan coming together!" he confessed with a grin.

Peck stiffened and groaned as his fearless leader's grin suddenly faded.

Hannibal knelt there, swaying back and forth. His oxygen-starved body had been running on fumes only for the past few minutes and now it appeared that even they had been used up. He started falling forward just as B.A. finished backing up.

Gage threw the van's back doors open and jumped out just in time to prevent the silver-gray haired guy's already bruised and bandaged forehead from striking the pavement…again. His fingers reached for his cyanotic pneumonia victim's corotid. "Amy? See if you can find his oxygen!" he requested, as the person summoned appeared at his side.

The girl glanced around and then turned to B.A. as he exited his vehicle, "Where'd he go with it?"

"He must a' lef' it on the elevator."

Amy stepped up to the control panel and punched the 'UP' button, repeatedly. Then she stood there, flexing and unflexing her long delicate fingers. "Now that the gang's **all** here, can we please make our next stop the clinic?"

Face took a quick accounting of the 'gang' and came up one short. "Where's Murdock?" 

B.A. motioned with his head to the back of the van.

Peck picked his head up, to peer inside. He spotted a familiar pair of sneakers sticking out from under a blanket. He also noticed the neat round bullet hole in the shattered window of one of the van's back doors. He stared up at Murdock's motionless feet, feeling almost as sick as Hannibal looked. "He gonna be okay?"

Baracus motioned with his head again, this time, in the affirmative.

Face exhaled a painful sigh of relief and then let his head drop down onto the pavement.

The paramedic completed his initial assessment of Colonel Smith's critical condition. Then he snatched an ammonia inhalant from one of the open cases at his feet and crouched down beside his second unconscious victim. "If we don't make our next stop the clinic," he warned and snapped the vile little vial between his fingers. He waved the smelling salts under the woman's nose a few times before continuing. "I guarantee you, _his_ next stop'll be the morgue!" he gravely announced and aimed his solemn gaze in the silver-gray haired guy's direction.

Face's feeling of relief was extremely short-lived. He, Amy and B.A. all glanced at each other, looking stunned.

Baracus noticed Amy's complexion was paling and grabbed her arm, to steady her.

The color returned to Aggie's face. It scrunched up and her hazel eyes snapped open. "Who's going to the morgue?" she anxiously inquired and propped herself up on her elbows to check on the condition of her adopted grandson. "It's not you! Is it, Face dear?"

Peck could see the concern in the woman's face, and could hear it in her voice. It was nice to have someone in his corner…someone besides just the guys on the team, that is. "Nobody is going to the morgue, Aggie," he quickly reassured her. "Because we're all going to the clinic!"

Amy looked tremendously relieved.

Aggie looked curious. "What clinic?"

"Beats me," Face replied. "But we're definitely going _there_ next!"

"Oh…my!" Aggie suddenly sighted John 'Hannibal' Smith's bluish-tinged body. "What happened?"

"You just passed out, mam," the fireman informed her after he'd finished taking vital signs. "Just stay put for a few more minutes, and you should be just fine." Gage gave the woman his most reassuring smile and then turned around to assess his fourth victim.

"No," Peck corrected, as the paramedic dropped to his knees beside him. "Hers was a certified swoon. Hannibal is the one who just passed out," he added, giving his adopted grandmother another reassuring reply.

And it was Aggie's turn to look tremendously relieved.

Face turned his full attention back to the guy who was suddenly giving him so much attention. "I'll be just fine, too, if I just stay put. I just lost some ribs. So why don't you just go back over there and take care of _him_," he suggested so insistently that it came out sounding more like a direct order than a polite request.

The paramedic completely ignored his patient's suggestion/order. "He needs 100 percent oxygen—wide open! And, he needs it now! But I can't give it to him without the regulator. So I'll just stay put, too…and take care of you." The fireman finished speaking and managed to complete his quick but thorough examination without any further protests.

Amy gasped in frustration. "It must be 'out of order'! I could've climbed to the top of this building and back by now!" she angrily added. Then she jerked, startled by a sudden 'ping'.

The elevator's doors finally opened.

A group of giggling teenaged girls stepped off.

Amy stepped on, to retrieve the bright orange plastic case, lying on the carpeted floor of the car.

The girls stopped—right in mid-giggle—and gasped at the strange sight that greeted them in the underground garage.

Two strange men were sprawled out on the pavement. A fire department paramedic was busy taping the good-looking, dark-haired guy's mid-section. The silver-gray haired guy, lying at their feet, appeared to be dead. There were two guns lying next to him and a third gun could be seen protruding from the pocket of his vest. Their landlady was just sitting there on the concrete, looking calm as could be.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Paisley?" one of them finally ventured to ask.

"I'm fine," Aggie assured them all with a forced smile. "I just have to stay put for awhile."

"What happened here?" another nervously wondered.

"Well, I swooned…Mr. Brentwood lost some ribs…and he's just passed out," Mrs. Paisley promptly replied, and managed to sound every bit as calm as she looked. "Now, go on. Run along, girls. There's nothing to worry your pretty little heads about. The fireman has everything under control."

The girls gave Aggie strange, uncertain stares. They weren't convinced by her calmness, in the least. Still, they obediently began shuffling off, in the direction of a sporty little red convertible.

Amy exited the elevator and dropped the _empty_ oxygen case onto the pavement beside Hannibal…and his _loaded_ gun.

Gage saw that the gun and the case were about the same size. "You mean, he was carrying _that_ instead of his oxygen?" he angrily demanded.

Nobody bothered to reply, as the answer was quite apparent.

"B.A., it must be in the front of the van," the flustered firefighter deduced. "Get it for me will you?"

Baracus nodded and hurried off.

The paramedic kicked the gun out of his way and then dropped to his knees beside his deathly-ill patient. "A lot a' good _that_ did him!" John shoved the sleeve of Hannibal's sweater up out of his way and prepared to draw a blood sample. "Once we get his oxygen going, we'd better get going! Amy, you wanna take Mrs. Paisley and Mr. Brentwood in your car? It's getting a little crowded in the back of the van."

Amy nodded, numbly, and then stooped down to pull a small white handkerchief from the right hand pocket of his patient's gray vest jacket. The kerchief was speckled with little flecks of dried blood. "Keep it up, Hannibal," she encouraged The A-Team's Commander, her soft, shaky voice filled with bitter sarcasm, "and Lynch won't have to worry about killing you. If he just waits long enough…you'll kill yourself." She blinked the tears from her eyes and slowly straightened back up.

Mr. Brentwood and Mrs. Paisley were both back on their feet.

"Can you two walk?" their blurry-eyed chauffeur inquired.

They gave her sympathetic glances and nodded.

Amy helped them, one at a time, into her car, which was parked beside B.A.'s vehicle--and in front of the slow elevator.

Face shot the girl another comforting glance as she climbed into the driver's seat beside him. Then, he sat there and watched, helplessly, while B.A. and the paramedic loaded their leader's limp body into the back of the van.

The gun in the oxygen case may not have done Hannibal any good. But, it had sure kept him alive and breathing.

The fireman obviously didn't know the Colonel well enough yet, to recognize his style. Putting other people's lives ahead of his own, has just always been Hannibal's style…always.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Lieutenant L.Templeton Peck carefully lifted up on the rusty-hinged door, which provided both an exit from A-Block's 'executive suite' and an entrance to the compound. He silently swung the portal open and then he and Sergeant Bosco Baracus stepped stealthily out into the…rain.

They snuck across the pitch dark, drizzly, damp and muddy yard and then cautiously crept up behind the 'canine' Captain and Lin Duk Koo.

The Captain and Koo were seated, silently, on the lower rungs of a ladder that was leaning up against the 'clothesline', from which there hung a limp and lifeless-looking body.

Then again, the pair wasn't sitting there so silently.

As Peck and Baracus drew closer, they could make out the two men's low voices.

The pilot and the cook were sitting there, singing in the rain.

Their audience stood there, in the steady drizzle and darkness, listening, in disbelief—and agony—to the duo's original—and awful—rendition of an authentic American cowboy song.

"Whoopee tie yie yippee yippee yea yippee yea," the Captain crooned, just shy of the right key.

"Whoopee tie yie yie yie yie yie yie," Lin Duk Koo crooned right along with him, just shy of the right lyrics.

"I give up!" a third voice suddenly gasped from above, sounding terribly weary and a bit desperate.

The singers gave up, too.

"I'll tell you anything…you want to know," the voice from above continued. "Just please…stop torturing me!"

The 'tortured' man's earnest plea caused Lieutenant Peck to smile.

It caused the Captain to jump up. "The cold rain must've revived him, Lyn!" the kid reasoned excitedly and quickly scrambled up the slippery ladder. "You're gonna make it, Colonel! Just so long as you can keep your sense of humor, I know you're gonna make it!"

"I wasn't joking," the Colonel informed him. "That really was torture!"

This time, the 'tortured' man's statement caused Peck to grin.

"Keiphue make Captain Murdock sing very much worse," Lin Duk admitted, sounding a bit under the keiphue influence himself, "but speak Vietnamese most perfect…ly."

"I thought I told you…to keep away…from the keiphue," the Colonel lightly scolded.

"I just took a sip or two to calm my nerves, Colonel," Murdock assured him.

"You wouldn't happen to have any of that stuff left, would you?" Face wondered as he and his buddy stepped up to the base of the ladder. "The Sergeant and I could use a nice, stiff belt right now, ourselves."

"What are you guys…doing out here?" came a cautious question from above.

"We don't know yet," Templeton truthfully replied. "Why do you think I said we could sure use a drink? Are, uh, you, by any chance, the 'brains' behind all of this escape business?"

"He is," Murdock proudly declared. "Colonel Smith, this is Lieutenant Peck and Sergeant Baracus…the 'brawn' that I was telling you about."

"Captain, I'd like to speak…with your 'brawn', here…for a few moments," the Colonel requested. "Privately," he added.

Murdock and Lin Duk reluctantly climbed down the ladder and then stepped out of earshot.

"Privately," the Colonel repeated.

Lieutenant Peck took the hint and climbed up the ladder, to get closer to the 'speaker'.

"I'm going to level with you, Lieutenant," Smith quietly continued. "The odds of even one…perfectly healthy guy…making it out of here alive…aren't all that great to begin with. Now…make the guy a pilot…but then give him a broken arm…and you've got a potential winner…but still a long shot. Have that guy…drag along two 'brawny' skeptics…who will probably question his every move…and who claim that they are…totally unfamiliar…with the details of the plan…and you've got yourself…a real long shot. Now…have those three guys…try to make it out of here alive…carting a dead man along…and…well…I don't have to even bother…to give you the odds…on that one. Suffice it to say…we're talking…suicide!"

"Is that it?" the Lieutenant inquired, following a rather lengthy lull. "I mean, have you finished speaking your piece? Can we _all_ get out of here now—before the guards discover our empty cells?" he added hintingly. Then he calmly reached out and began picking the lock on the manacle on the Colonel's right wrist.

"Didn't you hear me, Lieutenant?" the officer angrily demanded.

"I heard you," Peck assured him. Then to B.A. he said, "You wanna give me a hand here? When this thing opens, he's gonna drop like a rock."

Baracus obligingly stepped up to the dangling prisoner, grabbed him around his frail waist and prepared to support his weight when he fell.

"Lieutenant," the Colonel whispered wearily, "I don't have the energy…to argue with you."

"Then don't," Face calmly suggested and calmly continued working on the rusted lock mechanism of the prisoner's metal restraint.

"Plea-ease," the Colonel earnestly pleaded, "I want the kid…to make it."

"The kid wants you to make it, too," Peck informed him. "And, after hearing that little lecture of yours on the odds, so do we. Don't we, B.A.."

Baracus managed an acknowledging 'grunt' of sorts.

"If you heard the odds…then why are you taking me along?"

"Because, what you said sounded very noble…and sincere…and unselfish. And, on top of all that, it really made a lot of sense. So, now, you see? We have to take you along, because we couldn't possibly afford to leave such a 'brainy' guy like you behind. Could we, 'brawn'."

"Enuff talk! If the guards fin' us out here, we gonna all be lef' behin'—full a' bullet holes!"

There was a period of pronounced silence.

Which Colonel Smith was the first to break. "Take the kid…and get out of here!" he determinedly stated. "You can consider that…an order!"

Face was forced to smile. "Ahhh, you've clinched it now, Colonel. Now B.A. will never leave you behind. You see the Sergeant here has a real bad attitude about officers. He can't stand them. And, he has an even stronger aversion to their orders. Yeah…every time he hears an officer give an order, it makes him crazy, and he ends up doing just the opposite of what they wan—"

"—What're you doing up there, Lieutenant?" the young pilot impatiently pondered.

"I'm trying to get this bracelet off. But it's being stubborn…like your Colonel here."

"But that's not part of the plan! You're supposed to knock one of the ends of that pole off the top of one of these posts and then slide the chains off the—"

"—Why should we go knocking on poles, when my way will produce the same results with much less noise? We have to be quiet!"

As if on cue, the rusty lock finally 'clicked' open. The sharp metal band slipped from the Colonel's right wrist—and out of the Lieutenant's hands.

There followed an alarmingly loud series of sounds, as first the chain and then the attached manacle went jingling and rattling noisily up, over and off of the pole.

Then, B.A. let out a muffled cry as the falling metal objects scored a direct hit to the top of his un-helmeted head.

Finally, the rapid repositioning of the Colonel's upraised arms caused him to let out an involuntary cry of pain, as well.

Baracus ducked down and the prisoner doubled up over his left shoulder…his broad and brawny shoulder. The Sergeant then reached for the point of impact. He could feel a painful welt forming. "Hey, Face, ma—"

"—We've got to be quiet!" Face warned in a whisper, catching the aggravated tone in his aggravated friend's gruff voice. "And, that is why 'jingle bells' there, has to leave his charming bracelets behind." He descended the ladder to start picking the one remaining lock. "Stand up, B.A.."

The brawny Sergeant straightened up and stood there with the frail and fragile officer draped effortlessly over his shoulder.

Colonel Smith hung there, upside-down, with his arms dangling below his head. The sudden 180-degree change in his position wasn't all that bad on his shoulders. But it seemed to have a tremendously adverse effect on his severely congested lungs, because he started coughing something awful—and groaning, because the awful coughing was awful painful.

The Colonel's coughing covered the quiet 'click' of the last lock. The remaining metal band opened and the prisoner's manacles fell, with a final jingle, to the ground.

Face stared out through the darkness and drizzle in the direction of the source of the sickeningly loud sound. "We can't go anywhere with him coughing like that! We might as well go out there and yell 'Ready or not, here we come! Goal stickers are it!'"

"Well, Captain," Colonel Smith gasped to the young pilot between coughs, "there may be…some hope for you…yet. I was beginning to think…your brawn didn't have…any brains…at all!"

"Ignore him," the Lieutenant advised. "He's just trying to get us mad at him so that we'll leave him behind. But we don't have to leave him behind and we don't have to take anymore of his insults, either. Go ahead, B.A…hit him."

"I don' hit nobody when they're down, man!"

Face frowned. "But you like to hit officers! And, just think of it—this guy's a Colonel! You've never hit a Colonel before…"

"I don' care if he a four-star General! I ain' hittin' nobody when they're down! An' they don' git any downer than this dude…without bein' dead!"

Face's frown deepened. He didn't like to hit anybody—period! Be they up or down. He positively deplored the idea of hitting a 'dead man'. "Captain...?"

"It was _your_ idea," Murdock quickly reminded him.

Peck grimaced at the reminder. "Okay. Bend over, B.A.."

Baracus obediently bent over.

Face reluctantly reached out and grabbed the coughing officer by the tattered collar of his camouflage uniform.

"Remember the 'Grunt's Motto', Lieutenant!" Colonel Smith ordered, between coughs.

"Meaning no disrespect…sir," Peck sincerely said just prior to disrespectfully delivering a quick right cross to the Colonel's bearded jaw.

The coughing stopped.

Baracus straightened back up.

Face winced and flexed his bruised knuckles. "Well? What's next?" He glanced glumly around the gloomy compound and, upon finding no visible means of escape, he turned to the man with the plan and lightly inquired, "You, uh, going to pull out your 'communicator' and ask 'Scotty' to 'beam us up'?"

"The Klingons took my communicator," the man with the plan replied, his voice completely void of emotion. "So we shall have to 'climb' up, instead. Give me a hand here, Lieutenant. We must reposition this ladder against the roof of that building over there…"

Peck was about to question the man with the plan. But then, he recalled the Colonel's request to remember the 'Grunt's Motto': 'Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is but to do or die.' He closed his gaping mouth and did just as he was told.

After a brief struggle, the two of them somehow managed to get the clumsy, heavy thing down from the 'clothesline'. They started carrying it off toward the target building.

B.A. followed along, carting their 'dead man'.

"Where's Lin Duk Koo?" Face wondered. It had been some time since he'd seen any sign of or heard any words spoken from their foreign friend.

"Mr. Koo went back inside to keep the guards distracted for us. But first, he wished us all much success and said that it is his hope that we shall all meet again some day, in time of peace. He said that perhaps then we shall be able to share much happier experiences, and forget all of…this."

The Lieutenant noticed the man with the plan wasn't as successful at keeping his voice devoid of emotion when discussing Lin. Face had grown a bit misty-eyed himself, at the thought of never seeing Lin Duk Koo again. After all, what would be the odds of them ever meeting again—anywhere at any time? Peck swallowed hard and tried to put that depressing thought out of his mind. He succeeded, only to find it being replaced by one equally—if not even more—depressing. "Uhhh…This wouldn't happen to be the Commanding Officer's Quarters we're about to climb up…would it?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. It would."

Face made a face and managed a tiny, nervous chuckle…very tiny…and extremely nervous.

No doubt about it! Colonel Smith definitely knew what he was doing when he told them not to wonder why.

They finished quietly setting up the ladder.

"Follow me," the man with the plan urged, in a whisper, and started climbing.

Baracus gave his fellow 'brawn' a disgusted glare, which he couldn't see, and reluctantly began carting his cargo up the ladder. "Man! A thousan' an' one ways ta commit suicide, an' we gotta die on the General's roof with some crazy dude what thinks he's a dog!"

"Captain Murdock doesn't think he's a dog anymore, B.A.," Face calmly pointed out and started following his friend up the ladder.

"Nahhh!" the Sergeant acknowledged with a disgusted growl. "Now he think he's a Vulcan!"


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

The escaping prisoners left the slippery, wet, wooden ladder and started crawling up onto the even slipperier, soggier, wooden-shingled roof.

Somehow, they all managed to make it safely to the peak. But, if the pitch of the roof had been even just a couple of degrees steeper, they would have found themselves lying in a heap on the muddy ground of the compound, for sure!

Peck was clinging rather tenaciously to the top of the roof, by the tips of his slick—frozen—fingers. His face and eyes were all scrunched up, in response to the incredibly cold raindrops, which pitilessly pelted the POWs and increasingly dampened their clothing.

B.A. was hanging on to the rooftop by one arm. His other arm remained wrapped around the unconscious Colonel, who was still draped across his back. "What're we waitin' for?" he impatiently inquired after several soggy, silent—motionless—minutes had passed. "We sittin' up here jes' like a bunch a' targets in a shootin' gallery, man!"

"We are waiting for the General's girlfriend to arrive in her car from the city, which she does every evening—rain or shine," the man with the plan stoically informed him.

Even as the young Captain spoke, the sound of an approaching car's finely tuned engine could be heard, in the not too distant distance.

The trio peered cautiously over the peak of the roof and watched a little foreign sports car pass through the camp's main gate.

The vehicle then came 200 yards straight-ahead and stopped directly in front of the building they were presently perched upon.

The car's driver got out and opened its passenger's door. Two very shapely legs appeared, but then were blocked out by an umbrella. The girl beneath the umbrella then disappeared into Chou's quarters.

"Now, we slip quietly down, overpower the girl's chauffeur and steal his clothes and her car," their Vulcan plan man further volunteered. "Then, I tell the guards at the gate that the General's girlfriend has a headache tonight."

The two brawny skeptics glanced thoughtfully at one another. They had to admit—the plan did seem _logical_ enough.

They were just about to go over the top, when the door to the General's quarters suddenly reopened.

The girl with the umbrella briefly reappeared, only to vanish again—behind the passenger's door of her car.

"She can't leave ye-et!" Murdock declared, in a sudden burst of emotion. "She just got here!"

But the girl and her driver made a liar out of him.

"Maybe she really does have a headache tonight?" Peck glumly proposed, as they watched the vehicle go driving off into the darkness. "O-Or, maybe the General has a head—"

"—I think I'm getting' a headache!" B.A. grumbled.

Face turned his frown in the man with the blown plan's direction. "Guess we'll just have to forget the whole thing and try again tomorrow night," he constructively suggested.

"No!" the Captain, who had not quite recovered from his complete and utter devastation, adamantly declared. "We can't go back!"

With the plan now cafluey, Peck chucked the 'Grunt's Motto' and charged full speed ahead. "Why can't we?"

"Because it may not rain again for a week!"

"So?" Face queried, failing to find that a problem.

"So-o, the Colonel won't be here in a week!" Murdock placed his splinted wrist on the peak of the roof, and then rested his rain-drenched forehead upon it. "He won't even be here tomorrow night," he sadly whispered. "This was _his_** last** chance!"

"So-o?" Lieutenant Peck calmly repeated, finding that a definite, but not insurmountable, problem. "Then we forget about the girlfriend and steal the boyfriend's car!"

"Of course!" the Captain exclaimed, snapping his head up and getting back into the old escape groove again. "We steal the General's car!"

They gazed out over the rooftop, into the damp and gloomy pitch-blackness below.

There were no vehicles visible.

Heck, there was nothing visible!

"All we gotta do now...is find it," Face further proposed, all-be-it a lot less enthusiastically.

"Man!" Baracus groaned. "I'm definitely getting' a headache!"

"C'mon!" the Lieutenant quietly urged and started scrambling over the peak. "Follow me!"

B.A. and Murdock crawled carefully over the rooftop and then dissolved, into the drizzle and darkness behind him.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

The prisoners reached the edge of the other side of the roof, the side facing the main gate.

Lieutenant Peck perched precariously on the precipice for a few moments, staring down into the total darkness that awaited them below. 'Nothing ventured nothing gained,' he silently reminded himself. Then he got down on all fours and began backing off the roof. His fingers clawed the soggy shingles, in a desperate attempt to establish a handhold. But it was useless. His nails just scraped along the slick surface and he went sliding over the edge.

Face dropped into the darkness and landed with a loud, metallic 'thud'…on the hood of the General's car.

Several anxious seconds passed. But there were no shouts—or shots. So the sound of his arrival had apparently gone unnoticed.

'Well…that was easy enough,' Peck silently assessed, and smiled at his good fortune. "Pass me the Colonel!" he called up, in a whisper.

Baracus obediently lowered the 'dead man' down from the roof.

The Lieutenant propped the Colonel's limp body up against the windshield and then helped his fellow prisoners down onto the hood, as well.

The thin metal groaned under their combined weight and threatened to buckle. So the trio quickly redistributed it, and themselves, to the ground.

Their unconscious companion was crammed into the car's back seat.

"We'll push it halfway to the gate and _then_ try to start it," Face informed his cohorts, and ushered the one-armed pilot over to the driver's side door. "You get in and steer."

The Captain did as he was told.

His brawn pushed the medium-sized, four-door, foreign—probably French-made sedan across the muddy expanse that existed between the General's quarters and the camp's main gate.

The pair stopped at the halfway point and then piled quickly and quietly into the car with the Captain and the Colonel.

Murdock clambered into the back seat, to give the 'machinery magician' room to work his magic.

But no sorcery was required. B.A. fumbled around in the dark for the vehicle's ignition and discovered that the General's driver had conveniently left the keys in it. "They lef' us the keys, so's we wouldn' hafta hotwire this thing in the dark!" he announced, sounding almost cheerful…well, cheerful for him, anyways. The Sergeant even smiled, a slight unseen smile, at his good fortune.

"How nice," Peck stated sincerely. "Now, let's all pray that this baby's got a brand new, extremely quiet muffler."

Baracus was just about to turn the key—when the kid in the back suddenly gasped and groaned. The big guy's fingers froze. "What no-ow, man?"

"I just thought of something," Murdock answered, sounding utterly devastated again. "The only thing I know how to say is: The General's girlfriend has a headache tonight. And, that's not gonna make any sense no-ow!"

"Man! I knew it!" B.A. grumbled disgustedly. "Fers' we dancin' on the General's roof…an' then we goin' joy ridin' in the General's car! I jes' knew—" he stopped his tee'ed off tirade in mid-grumble and turned to his friend. "You know the lingo!"

"I understand a little Vietnamese," Face confessed. "But I can't speak it. I can't pronounce the words properly. For sure not well enough to get us past the guards. They'd spot me for a phony in one poly-syllable!"

The Sergeant groaned disgustedly. "A migraine!" he glumly grumbled and then stiffened, as another groan suddenly came from the back of the car, this one from the Colonel, who seemed to be coming around.

Face leaned over the front seat and prepared to administer another dose of the Colonel's cough medicine.

"No! Wait!" Murdock exclaimed and latched onto the Lieutenant's wrist. "Maybe he can help us?"

Peck pulled his punch back.

The kid gave the guy propped up in the seat beside him a few shakes. "Colonel Smith? Colonel, wake up! We need you!"

A few more, slightly rougher, shakes and the Colonel coughed and groaned and came completely around. "Wha—Where…are we?"

"We're still at the Hanoi Hilton, Colonel," the Captain informed him. "But, we're just about to check out. Only we had to change the plan a little. We had to steal the General's car. So, now, we need you to convince the guards at the gate that you're the General. Can you do that for us, Colonel?"

Colonel Smith just sat there, breathing hard and moaning softly. "Where…did you say…we were?" he wondered in a whisper, acknowledging the Captain at last.

"We're heading for the main gate, Colonel. And, when we stop the car, you gotta _tell the guard that you're General Chou_ and then _ask him to open the gate_. You got that, Colonel?"

"I'm the General...Open the gate...I'm the General...Open the gate...I'm the Gen—"

"—One more thing, Colonel," Murdock interrupted the mumbling man. "You gotta say it in Vietnamese."

"Dao khali-nam...Don-chung ngai...Dao khali-nam...Don-chung ngai...Dao khali-nam...Don-chung ngai…"

"Okay. Let's go!" the Captain encouraged.

Face's eyebrows shot up into the middle of his forehead. "You can't be serious! He's _delirious_!"

"Don't worry. Colonel Smith makes more sense when he's delirious than most guys make when they're stone sober," the kid calmly announced. "Besides, you got another way outta here?"

Peck considered the Captain's question over for a few moments and then turned to his buddy. "Let's go, B.A.," he glumly conceded.

The Sergeant grunted, to show his disgust with the whole affair, and reluctantly turned the key in the ignition. The car's engine caught and then purred quietly, like a kitten. He fought with the unfamiliar shifting lever and finally got the vehicle moving toward the main gate.

The Captain rolled the Colonel/General's window down—but just a crack. It wouldn't do for the guard to get a good look at the officer's non-oriental features.

B.A. rolled the car to a stop in front of the gate.

One of the guards left the dryness of the little building that served as his post and came stepping up to the Colonel/General's side of the car.

While his fellow prisoners held their collective breath, Colonel Smith tried to regulate his. He put a great deal of effort into emphasizing his requested request to the guard.

The soldier stiffened and came to attention. Then he bowed respectfully and motioned for his fellow guard to open the gate.

Sergeant Baracus pressed on the accelerator and drove the car through the opening that had just been so graciously provided for them.

It was a good thing that a steady, freezing drizzle was still falling, and that they had fogged up the windows with their breath, or the soldiers would have seen the looks of disbelief and then relief on the faces of the three escaping prisoners.

The fourth POW had lapsed back into unconsciousness, as they had passed through the gate.

The trio waited until they'd traveled a few more yards outside the camp before daring to exhale—three very audible sighs of relief.

They reached an intersection.

"Hang a left, here," Murdock advised the driver.

B.A. did. Then he glanced in his unseen amigo's direction and got in a sarcastic dig. "Did you understan' any a' that, man?"

Face was forced to smile. "Some," he shyly confessed. "He muttered something about having too much to drink…and then I think he told the guard that he would pluck out his eyeballs, if he didn't open the gate and then forget that he ever saw him tonight."

"That soun's like General Chou, all right!" Baracus dryly admitted. His next question was directed to the kid in the back. "Where do we go from here?"

"There's a railroad crossing about two miles up ahead," the man with the plan readily replied. "We have to stop there and drive the car up onto the tracks."

A long silence followed.

With the plan back in action, the 'brawn' went back to remembering the 'Grunts Motto'…almost gladly!


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

Since 99.99 percent of the escape occurred in total darkness, Face didn't really have too many visual recollections of leaving North Vietnam.

He could, however, distinctly recall the crazy conversations they carried on along the way.

Like the one they had while tooling down the tracks in the General's car, for instance…

"It's no use. I can't see a thing out there. Least of all, anything resembling an airfield. How far down did he say it was?"

"He didn't. He just said to turn left onto the tracks…it would be on the right side…and to just proceed until you come to it."

"Great! That means we could have passed it already!"

"Don't worry. We didn't pass it."

"How do you know we didn't pass it?"

"Because he gave me a sign to watch for and I've been watching for it."

"A sign, huh. What's it say? North Vietnamese Airfield Next Exit?"

"You see the horizon out there?"

"Yeah…and that's about all I can make out, too."

"Well, he said to watch the treeline on the horizon."

"Why?"

"He said, when you don't see the treeline on the horizon anymore, then you'll know you've found the airfield."

"Oh."

* * *

Or the conversation the three escaping POWs had while carting their 'dead man' along the edge of the large, open clearing that served as a North Vietnamese Airfield…

"Not exactly LAX, is it. You sure this is the right place? I don't see any _planes_."

"Neither do our B-52s."

"I don' wanna see no 'planes', man! I'll jes stick ta the General's car an' meet yah all somewheres down the line."

"The VC keep the planes hidden under camouflage netting. They're real small…mostly WWII vintage, single and twin engine prop' jobbies. They only use 'em to fly in military supplies from China. But, we ain't interested in beating the bushes for a _plane_, anyway."

"Yah mean, this plan don' include takin' no plane rides?"

"Nope!"

"Then, what're we doing here?"

"What we're interested in, comrades, is a Russian helicopter."

(_Groan_) "Man, that's jes' as bad as a plane!"

"A Russian helicopter? What makes you think there's even one here?"

"Because the Colonel said that he saw several of them on the aerial reconnaissance photos of this field. Would you believe he studied aerial recon' photos for over two months—before he even stepped foot in Vietnam?"

"Actually...we would."

* * *

Or the one the three 'comrades' had while huddled around one of the Russian helicopters they'd discovered concealed beneath piles of brush…

"Your Colonel Smith wasn't kidding when he said security would be lax around here, was he. I'm beginning to think it's nonexistent."

"He said the guards patrol all day and then go underground at night. This one's a little better. This tank's ¾ full and the other side's ½ full. We may as well go with this one. Sergeant, set the Colonel down inside and then start whipping brush. Lieutenant, rip the sleeve off your shirt for me, will you…"

(_Profound silence, followed by the sound of cloth tearing_)

"Thanks. Now we need to borrow a boot lace from somebody…"

(_Sound of bootlace sliding through eyelets_)

"Great. Now take the dry end of my dipstick, here, wrap this cloth around it in a tight wad and then tie the wad in place with the lace…"

(_More silence_)

"You got it on there nice and tight?"

"As nice and tight as I can get it."

"Good. Now dip it in the fuel tank, so I can put the cap back on and we can get the hell outta here."

"Wait a minute…Why are we making a torch?"

"A torch? Man! We cain' go lightin' no torch!"

"Yes we can. I found a cigarette lighter between the cushions in the back seat of the General's car. Here…take it. The matches I got from Lynduck got kind a' soggy."

"What do we need a torch for?"

"Hey…I've never flown a Russian helicopter before. I've never seen the outsides, let alone the insides, a' one before. So, I'm gonna need a light to familiarize myself with the controls."

_Long, dread filled silence_)

"Relax, comrades! My Grandfather was Russian. I got Russian blood in me. Besides, if it can be _flown_, then old 'Howlin' Mad' Murdock can **fly** it!"

(_Another, even lengthier period of dread filled silence_)

No doubt about it! Colonel Smith definitely knew was he was doing when he told them to leave out the why's and the what for's.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

The three POWs joined their unconscious 'comrade', inside the Russian chopper.

Captain Murdock and Lieutenant Peck occupied the pilot's, co-pilot's seats, respectively.

Sergeant Baracus and Colonel Smith were crammed in back, on the floor of the little cargo space behind the front seats.

The Lieutenant lit up their torch, and their torch lit up the cockpit.

The young pilot's trained eyes carefully scanned the conglomeration of confusing and unfamiliar controls. "Holy Boris and Natasha!" he exclaimed, as he took in the carnage. "Would you get a load a' this!" He whistled softly and kept running his expert eyes and his one good hand over the switches and levers. "It's all put together backwards! Everything in here is backwards—even the writing!"

"Jes' so's it don' fly backwards!" B.A. grumbled.

"Jes' so's it flies—period!" Face quickly contributed.

"Oh, she looks like she'll fly all right. Although, there's an awful lot of slack in her control cables…and her transmission feels real sloppy…and these foot pedals seem a little stiff. She's got a lot a' play in her left aileron rudder, too. Bu-ut, give me ten or fifteen minutes to get her cold, Russian heart warmed up and she'll lift right off the ground and fly, like the big ugly Russian buzzard that she is."

"**Ten or fifteen minutes?**" his conscious comrades chimed together, sounding horrified to the max.

"Better make that **five**!" Peck advised.

"Better make that **three**!" Baracus corrected. "Man! That torch is gonna start drawin' VC jes' like a porch light draws moths!"

"Hey, a helicopter is a real complicated piece a' machinery. You can't just crank 'em up and take off—just like that! You gotta give the engine time to get warmed up and build your compression up there, before you go engaging your rotors, or you'll stall 'er right out, for sure! An' then, you got big prob—"

"—Enuff talk! If it take so long ta warm this thing up, then why don' you git started?"

"Because I can't find the starter, that's why! What do you think I've been looking for all this time? C'mon, baby! How do I turn you on? You little Russian vixen, you! Wait! Lower the light here a second…Ah-hah! нажмите к старту—PUSH TO START." He pressed нажмите к старту.

There was a grating sound…followed by a high-pitched whine, and then…silence, as the engine turned over but failed to catch.

Murdock tried again—with the same 'no result' result. "C'mon, liebschien, quit playing so hard to catch!"

There was another grating sound…and another high-pitched whine…followed by a loud knocking noise. Then, the whine began steadily increasing in pitch and volume. The entire cockpit started vibrating. Actually, 'rattling something awful' would probably be a more accurate description.

Which caused Sergeant Baracus to doubt the airworthiness of their aircraft even more than he already did. "That does it, man! I'm takin' the General's car!" The big guy was just about to abandon ship, when several other even more unsettling sounds suddenly caused him to settle quickly back down inside the chopper.

The 'brrrrrrrddddt! brrrrrdddt! brrrddt!' of Charlie's BARs was followed by the 'pzing! ping! pzing! ping!'ing of bullets bouncing off the fuselage, just above their ducking heads.

"Douse the light!" Captain Murdock shouted, above the whining of his engine, "And pray their bullets don't cut the control cables!"

Face gladly whipped their torch out the door.

It landed on the pile of brush that had been keeping the chopper hidden. Despite the damp conditions, the brush pile burst into flames.

"Lieutenant, give me your hand!" the Captain requested.

Peck hesitated.

"Now, Lieutenant!"

Face reluctantly handed over his left hand.

The Captain placed it over one of the copter's control levers. "Just hold this thing steady while I try to get us off the ground!"

"I can't fly this thing!" Peck protested.

"Oh really? Well, I got news for you, Lieutenant! I can't fly it, either—with just one hand!" The crippled pilot used his good right hand to throttle up and engage the rotors.

His unwilling co-pilot obediently kept his unsteady left hand on the control lever.

The whining engine sputtered for several sickening seconds but then continued its high-pitched 'hum-hum-hum'ing along with the steady 'thrum-thrum-thrum'ing of the rotating blades above their heads—and the 'pzing-ping'ing of ricocheting bullets.

"Okay, FLY, BUZZARD! FLY!" 'Howlin' Mad' pleadingly prompted, and waged a desperate struggle with the bird's stiff—and strange—controls.

The blades began rotating more rapidly and the cockpit started vibrating more violently. There was a sudden lurch as the shaky craft picked itself right up off the ground.

The young pilot kept the copter hovering there for a few hectic moments as he tried to recall the location of several of its unseen and unfamiliar—yet crucial—controls. "Backwards!" he reminded himself. "I'm so tired, I can't even think straight—let alone backwards!"

Suddenly, they began to rise, and rise rapidly.

The glow of the bonfire below diminished as their distance from it increased.

Since fate forced him to fly by 'feel' alone, Murdock circled the airfield several times, just to get the 'feel' of things.

The Captain then piloted their stolen aircraft down the rails, in the same direction they'd been traveling them by car…south!


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty**

Captain Murdock had followed the tracks to where they crossed a small river. He then made a **left** turn and followed the river clear to the coast.

The stolen—and still airborne—Russian helicopter had been traveling south along the coastline, ever since.

Lieutenant Peck hated to distract the driver, but there was a question that had been distracting him, for the past several hours now. He finally decided to have it answered—for better…or for worse. "How's the fuel holding up?" he shouted, over the incessant, and deafeningly loud, 'chop-chop-chop'ing of the whirling blades, slicing the air over their heads.

"You still got that lighter?" Murdock shouted back.

Peck pulled the item out of his shirt pocket and passed it to the pilot.

"Light it for me, will yah!"

Face did.

"Okay! See what I'm holding?"

"Yeah!"

"Then, hold it for me!" the Captain requested. The chopper's pilot pulled his steady hand from the stick so his 'co-pilot' could place his unsteady hand upon it. Then he took the flickering light and swung around in his seat, to examine something of even greater interest to him than their aircraft's fuel gauges.

The lighter's little flame illuminated their two quiet 'comrades' on the floor in the back.

Sergeant Baracus was just sitting there, silently, cradling the unconscious Colonel in his huge, powerful arms.

"How is he?"

"Still breathin'! But, jes' barely! He's runnin' outta time, man!"

Captain Murdock spun back around in his seat and passed the lighter in front of several of his control panel's gauges. "And we're runnin' outta fuel!" He flicked the lighter shut and swapped it for the control stick.

Since total darkness prevented the young pilot from seeing what occupied the pitch-black airspace ahead of them, he had compensated by flying high enough to avoid any unseen obstacles that might be lurking in their line of flight. Now, he dropped their bird down so that they were skimming along, just a few dozen feet above the ground.

Face noticed that the sandy dunes and rocky beaches, which had been whizzing by below them for the past several hundred miles, were becoming increasingly visible and not just because they were so much closer.

Suddenly, a golden glow illuminated the cockpit.

Peck peered out the Captain's window, to the east.

The sun was just peeking up over the Pacific Ocean. Brilliant hues of red, orange and yellow blended across the horizon and were reflected off the water's glassy surface.

The Lieutenant tore his attention away from the breathtakingly beautiful view, to pose another pressing question. "Do you think we'll at least make it to, or through, the DMZ?"

"We already have!"

Face sat there in stunned silence for a few moments. "What do you mean, _we already have_?"

"Well, we've already passed Gio Linh, Dong Ha and Quang Tri, and they're all south of the DMZ!"

His co-pilot's face filled with astonishment, then joy and, finally, confusion. "Then, why don't you land this thing—before we run out of fuel and crash?"

It was growing lighter by the second now, and things were becoming clearly visible—things like _Russian_ helicopters.

"Or worse yet!" the Lieutenant alarmedly tacked on. "Before we get shot down!"

"The Colonel's not going to make it, unless we get him to a hospital—fast!" the young pilot gravely pointed out. "And, the nearest hospital is in Hue! Now, you wanna see if you can find something 'white' to wave, comrade? If they think we're surrendering, they might not shoot us out of the sky!"

There immediately followed a steady stream of muffled 'da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da's that sent a whole barrage of little lead missiles heading their way.

The bullets ricocheted everywhere and went 'pzing-ping'ing off the rotor blades, the transmission housing—a few even found their way through the fuselage and sent shards of shrapnel flying around the inside of the cockpit.

One round came straight in through the windshield and went whizzing between the heads of the two comrades in front, and over the heads of the two comrades in back. It then ran down the drive shaft and knocked out the helicopter's main steering controls.

As suddenly as the barrage had started, it ended.

Murdock straightened back up in his seat and struggled with the steering lever with all the strength in his good right arm. "Feels like we just lost the servos!" he regrettably announced.

"Is that serious?"

"It has sort a' the same effect as when the power steering suddenly goes out in a car!" the Captain calmly explained. "You wanna give me your hand again? I'm gonna need your help to land this thing for sure! I ain't never gonna be able to manhandle this crate with one arm, _no-ow_!"

His unwilling co-pilot reluctantly loaned him his unsteady hand again.

* * *

It was almost broad daylight by the time the Captain finally picked out an LZ. (Landing Zone)

Murdock, and his co-pilot, brought the big, Russian bird down on a narrow, crowded street smack dab in front of the entrance to the 101st Army Medical Hospital in Hue, South Vietnam.

The hospital had an actual heli-pad, an enormous white circle with a red cross painted in its center. But there was a med-evac chopper already parked in _that_ space.

Murdock was just about to begin shutting things down, when the whirlybird's engine started to sputter. It coughed a couple more times and then died out—completely. They'd just ran out of fuel.

"Good to the last drop!" the young pilot victoriously proclaimed and went to swipe the sweat from his forehead. Only, his brow wasn't sweaty. It was bloody! Murdock stared down at the back of his bloody right hand for a few moments. He figured he must've caught some flack from that round through the windshield. "This is your Captain speaking," he lightly quipped. "Thank you for flying the** un**friendly...skies."

The Lieutenant stiffened as 'their Captain' suddenly slumped sideways in his seat.

"Hey, Face!" B.A. called out to him. "Give me a hand here, man!"

Peck reluctantly left their pilot, and the cockpit. Then he hurried around to the side of the chopper and lent his amigo a hand with their almost really dead 'dead man'.

Baracus crawled out of the cargo space and took the unconscious Colonel carefully back into his brawny arms. "Don' jes' stan' there!" he yelled to the three rifle-toting soldiers and the two medical corpsmen that had gathered outside the building, to gawk at the big, ugly, Russian buzzard that had just been double-parked on their front doorstep. "Help us fin' these men some doctors! RIGHT NOW!" he gruffly ordered.

The motionless men closed their gaping mouths and started filing obediently down the hospital's steps.

Face got their passed out pilot's seatbelt unbuckled and was just about to pull _him_ from the helicopter, when someone suddenly placed their hand gently down upon his left shoulder.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter Forty-One**

Face was still seated in the front seat of Amy's car, which was still on its way to the mystery clinic.

He felt someone's hand on his left shoulder and turned his head in that someone's direction.

"Face, dear...are you alright?" Agnes Paisley anxiously inquired. "You've been so terribly quiet for so long...I was beginning to worry."

Peck flashed his adopted grandmother a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Aggie. I was just thinking..." he turned back to stare thoughtfully out the front windshield, "...just...thinking..." he softly repeated.

His words, and the world around him, faded away.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter Forty-Two**

Lieutenant Peck found himself in a room on the second floor of the 101st Army Medical Hospital in Hue, where he and Sergeant Baracus shared neighboring beds.

The two recently escaped, half-starved POWs had been given complete physicals…hot baths…baby blue hospital jammies…and nice, hot, high-protein breakfasts—in that order.

The two men looked up from their steaming trays as an Army nurse poked her pretty head into their room.

"You guys feel up to some company?" she wondered. "Some Captain, from ACI, is waiting to see you…claims he's here for your 'debriefing'. And, when you finish with him, the corridors downstairs are becoming increasingly cluttered with war correspondents intent on getting some exclusive interviews. It seems they all want an audience with 'the courageous and cunning soldiers' that made 'the spectacularly successful and daring escape from the North'," she finished her quotes and flashed the two conscious 'courageous and cunning soldiers' a wry smile.

Her patients glanced at each other, looking rather alarmed.

Face turned back to the woman. "I, uh, don't think we feel up to holding 'visitor's hours' just yet, Lieutenant."

"Anything you say, Lieutenant," the nurse acknowledged. She, and her smile, disappeared.

"Eh, Lieutenant?" Peck called after her.

The woman whipped her pretty, smiling face back into their room. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"How's Colonel Smith?"

The nurse's chipper expression suddenly sobered. "Everything that can be done for him **is** being done for him."

"Well, what are his chances? I mean, did we get him here in time?"

"I'm not going to offer you any false hope, gentlemen. About the only thing your C.O.'s got going for him right now is his own stubborn refusal to die. And, as long as he keeps willing himself to live, we'll keep doing everything we possibly can for him." She saw the sad, discouraged looks on her patients' faces. "Hey, I didn't mean for you to give up hope _entirely_. Your Colonel Smith hasn't given up on himself yet, so neither should we. If there's any way for him to make it through all of this, I have a feeling he'll find it. I mean, just the fact that he's already made it this far—in his condition—proves that!"

Though the woman had tried her best to end on a positive note, her patients weren't encouraged in the least.

"What about Captain Murdock?" Face inquired further.

"He's still in surgery. They're still pulling pieces of windshield out of his forehead. But, he's expected to make a complete recovery. He's a very lucky young man. If the fragments had hit just a ½ an inch lower, Major Aston says he'd have lost his right eye."

"Yeah," Face agreed, his quiet voice filled with sarcasm, "we're a real 'lucky' bunch, all right."

The nurse gave them one last deeply sympathetic look and then left, taking the two patients' appetites along with her.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter Forty-Three**

When asked where they'd been for the past couple of months, the only answer the two 'cunning' soldiers would give is 'in a POW camp somewhere near Hanoi'.

When asked how they all managed to get from Hanoi to Hue, all they'd say is 'in a Russian helicopter'.

The two amigos had held a closed conference with the recuperating Captain Murdock. At which time, it was determined that, to divulge any further details, would be to endanger the life of their good friend and accomplice, Lin Duk Koo.

So, when pressed by the reporters and ACI (Army Central Intelligence) they simply stated that they were not at liberty to discuss the particulars of their carefully planned and well-executed escape.

One thing they _were_ always willing to discuss, however, was the condition of the 'brains' behind the whole thing…

"How's Colonel Smith doing this morning, Corporal?" Face inquired of the cocky medical corpsman that'd just entered their room, carrying two steaming trays of more of their prescribed high-protein diet—in the form of breakfast.

"Okay. I guess," the kid replied with a loud snap of his gum, "sir," he added, as an afterthought, and calmly went about his duties.

"You guess?" the Lieutenant queried in disbelief. "Yesterday, you said that you had your fingers on the pulse of this hospital. You told us that you are on top of everything and everyone in this place. I should think that you would _know_ how he's doing…"

"Yeah. Well, nobody ever really knows, for sure, how your C.O. is doing, because his condition keeps changing—all the time! One minute, he's relatively stable. The next, he's critical again. One minute, the docs are convinced he's dying. The next, they're giving him a 50/50 chance. So, you see, 'how Colonel Smith is doing'—at any given moment in time—is anybody's guess.

In fact, everything about your C.O. seems to be a mystery. The docs can't find any military records going beyond last year, so he has no medical history. It's like he just suddenly appeared—out of nowhere! Major Seffner thinks he's an E.T.B.."

"A what?" 

"An E.T.B…extra-terrestrial-being…sir."

Face gave the cocky kid an 'oh brother' look and his rapidly cooling breakfast a disheartened glance.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty-Four**

One week of dodged debriefings and one-sided interviews later, Face and B.A. were still bed-bound.

The cocky kid corpsman poked his head into their room. He noticed that neither patient's jaw was moving in a chewing motion, and exhaled an exasperated gasp. "Hey, c'mon, sirs! Chow down!" he urged. "Your C.O. is being evac'ed to another ICU down in Saigon this afternoon, and Major Townsend doesn't want to send him off looking like some old prospector. So, between breakfast and lunch rounds, I've got to find the time to play barber. I was supposed to clean him up the day you guys brought him in, but it's impossible to give someone a haircut and shave when they're wrapped in oxygen tubing and covered with tape. I know. I tried."

Peck and Baracus finally recovered from the corpsman's shocking announcement enough to speak.

"If he's well enough ta travel clear down ta Saigon," B.A. deducted aloud, "then he mus' be well enough ta make it the rest a' the way, too."

"Do the doctors really think he's going to make it?" Face hopefully inquired.

"The docs don't know what to think anymore, and your C.O. isn't well enough to travel yet. He's just too sick to stay here. But they're rigging up a special med-evac chopper just for him. And, just between you and me, my money's on the Colonel…sir."

His patients glanced at one another, looking both shocked and disgusted.

"You're not actually _betting _on whether or not he makes it to Saigon?"

"Are you kidding? This place hasn't seen this much action since the last Army/Navy game!" the not kidding kid calmly replied, "…sir."

"That's…sick!" the Lieutenant told him, sounding every bit as disgusted as he looked.

"No, sir," the cocky kid corrected. "That's smart! Because I know he's going to make it! Not just to Saigon, either. I bet my whole paycheck that he's gonna make it the rest of the way, too! I'm gonna make a killing!" he finished with a grin.

Face was just about to ask him what the 'odds' currently were on the Colonel, when Major Townsend suddenly appeared in their doorway.

"Good news, gentlemen!" the doc declared. "It looks like your C.O. may finally be coming around."

"Does that mean he's going to make it?" Peck hopefully re-inquired.

"That means we feel he now stands a slightly better chance. Barring further complications, of course."

"If he's still so sick, then why are you shipping him all the way down to Saigon? Isn't that a bit risky?"

"We feel we've done all we can for him here. He needs better and more intensive care—more sophisticated medical equipment to handle any complications that may develop. I'll be going down with him, and we've done everything we can to minimize the risks."

The cocky kid corpsman gave the pensive patients another smug grin and a knowing wink—and his gum another loud 'snap'—before disappearing from the doorway.

Face turned his attention back to the Major. "Can we see him before he ships out?"

Townsend looked thoughtful. He had been told of the two starved men's dangerously diminished appetites. "Sure. It'll be good for morale—his and yours. But only for a minute or two. He's still extremely week and I want him to save what little strength he has for the trip."

The two men nodded their compliance and then quickly donned some robes.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter Forty-Five**

Face and B.A. followed Major Townsend into the hospital's ICU ward.

Captain Murdock was standing at the seriously sick looking silver-gray haired guy's bedside, holding a melting ice cube to his dry, cracked lips.

Their C.O.'s drawn and haggard face did indeed remain unshaven, and his long, shaggy locks did indeed remain unshorn, and his scruffy appearance did indeed cause him to look like some old prospector who'd just come down from the hills.

There were tubes attached to his nostrils, and tubes attached to his wrists, which still bore the scars of his shackles…permanent reminders of the ghastly ordeal his cruel captors had put him through.

The semi-conscious Colonel gasped and moaned with each shallow, arduously exhaled breath, and winced each time he swallowed—his painfully sore throat a not so permanent reminder of the endo-trachial tube that was hastily inserted down his throat, during his recent close brush with death.

The moaning man's eyes finally fluttered open. He lay there, blinking them into and out of focus. "Good grief," he exclaimed, in a very hoarse whisper, as the Captain's smiling face and heavily bandaged head came into clear view at last. "What the hell…happened…to you?"

"Remember when you asked me 'how far into South Vietnamese airspace did I think I'd get, flying a Soviet built chopper'?"

"Yeah," the Colonel cautiously replied.

Murdock's smile broadened into a grin. "Well, Colonel, you might say that I found out the hard…'Hue'."

Smith winced again, this time, in mental anguish. Then a strange look came over him, as something unbelievably fantastic finally dawned on him. "We made it."

"All the way to Hue!" the young pilot proudly announced.

The Colonel's eyes closed. "We actually made it," he wonderingly repeated. Suddenly, his eyes snapped back open. "What ever became of…our 'brawn'?"

"We're still attached to our 'brains'," Peck replied. He and his amigo stepped up to stand on the other side of the Colonel's hospital bed.

Smith turned in their direction, saw their 'brawn' for the first time, and liked what he saw. "Lieutenant Peck…Sergeant Baracus," he acknowledged with a broad, confident smile and an unnerving stare.

"Colonel Smith," Lieutenant Peck acknowledged right back, with a rather cocky smile and unsettling stare of his own.

Sergeant Baracus reluctantly acknowledged the officer with a slight grunt and a semi-sneer and didn't so much as bat an eye at the Colonel's penetrating gaze.

Smith's confident smile broadened into a confident grin. "Don't yah just _love_ it…when a plan…comes together?" he softly inquired.

His fellow freed POWs glanced at one another and were forced to smile.

Face turned back to their C.O.. "You know, it's funny, but I almost feel as if I know you, Colonel…like I've known you for the past couple of months. You see, I used to help Lin Duk you-know-who with his homework and, well, you'd be surprised how much you can learn about someone, just by the homework assignments they hand out…"

Lin Duk's teacher arched one brow, slightly. "I know what you mean…Lieutenant. I feel I know the two of you…fairly well already, too. I mean, you'd be surprised…how much you can learn about someone…just by the direct orders…they choose to completely disregard…"

The Lieutenant arched one of his brows, slightly. "Orders? I don't recall hearing any orders. Do you, B.A.? Some pleading and begging, perhaps…a great deal of coughing…some mild delirium even, but no 'orders'."

The former pleading, begging, coughing, mildly delirious officer was forced to smile. "Thank you for your…imagined…insubordination, gentlemen. But for that…and your brawn…I wouldn't be here right now."

Face returned the smile. "No thanks are necessary, Colonel. We wouldn't be here right now either, if it weren't for your brains."

The Colonel's confident grin returned. "We make a pretty good combination, huh? So…what d'yah say…we _stay_ attached? I'm gonna be recruiting…some new members…for my Special Forces detachment…when I blow this joint…and I could use a couple a'...'brawny' guys like you…on my team."

The brawny guys glanced at each other, looking stunned.

"I tell yah what," the Colonel continued, "don't decide right now. I'll arrange some R&R for you in say...Honolulu okay?…and the two of you can lie around…resting and recreating…and thinking it over…I'll join you there…in a few weeks…and you can give me your answer then…How's that sound?"

"Sounds really nice," Face assured him. "But do you, uh, honestly think you're going to be out of the hospital in just a few weeks?"

"No, Lieutenant," the Colonel honestly replied. "I don't think…I'm gonna be out by then…I know…I'm gonna be out by then…because I'm going to be a good little boy…and eat all of my veggies."

"What about me, Colonel?" Murdock inquired, sounding slightly hurt.

Smith turned back to the Captain. "What do you mean…what about you?" he teased.

"You know what I mean. Couldn't your team use a good pilot, too?"

"Yes…I suppose so," the Colonel replied, keeping a perfectly straight face. "Why, Captain? Are you volunteering?"

"Well, Colonel, if you're not going to 'recruit' me, then I guess that means I'll have to volunteer," the kid annoyedly reasoned.

The Colonel could no longer contain his amusement at the Captain's continued annoyance with him, and, for a few moments, his soft, easy laughter filled the room. Then he regained his composure and turned back to his young friend, looking dead serious. "I could probably put…a good pilot…to good use, all right," he admitted. "But an even more valuable asset…would be a good _friend_…someone I could confide in…someone I could trust completely…someone like you, Murdock."

The young Captain looked completely overwhelmed, then deeply touched, and, finally, highly honored to be 'recruited' for that particular position on the team. He set his jaw, confidently and held his bandaged head up, proudly. "You can consider _both_ positions filled, Colonel!"

"Thanks…Murdock," Colonel Smith mumbled, sounding unbelievably weary all of a sudden. His tired, drooping eyes closed and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "I love it…when…a team…comes together…too," he muttered softly and then drifted instantly and soundly off to sleep.

But his team didn't come together that easily.

The other two openings weren't filled quite as quickly.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty-Six**

The sun was setting on the Honolulu hotel where Lieutenant Peck, Sergeant Baracus and Captain Murdock had been staying for the past three weeks—compliments of Colonel Smith.

Face had spent half of his time sunbathing on the hotel's beach, checking out all the beautiful, bikini-clad girls, and the other half checking out the Colonel.

B.A. had spent half of his time complaining that he was bored, and the other half tinkering under the hood of the hotel's VIP limousine which, he had convinced the management, needed a complete overhauling.

Murdock had spent half of his time worrying about the Colonel, and the other half phoning the Saigon hospital he'd been transferred to for better and more intensive care.

The three resting and recreating soldiers would meet in the lounge each evening at around sunset, to compare notes.

The two amigos looked up as the missing member of their unlikely trio entered the lounge and started making his way over to their corner booth. They noticed that although the Captain's plaster cast had been removed, his freshly mended forearm was still slung safely in a sling.

"How's our 'good little boy' doing, today?" Peck pondered as Murdock assumed a seat directly across the table from them. "Still eating all his veggies, is he?"

"I tell you guys, somethin' funny's goin' on in that hospital," the Captain solemnly replied. "I've been tryin' to reach the Colonel all day and every time I ring his room, a nurse answers and says: _Colonel Smith is unable to come to the phone at the moment, but don't worry. He'll be getting in touch with you shortly_."

"So?" Face wondered. "What's so unusual about that?"

"Are you kidding? What could they possibly be doing to him that would keep him from answering his phone **all** day?"

"We can't imagine."

"Neither can I! And, that's why I think there's somethin' funny goin' on."

The two skeptics seated across from him remained skeptical.

B.A. gave up on the Captain entirely and turned to someone with a little sounder questions and answers. "Did yah git a hold a' Hanley?"

His buddy's glum expression brightened. "I finally tracked him down this afternoon. He's been laying low in some sleazy hotel in Singapore for the past few weeks."

"Who's Hanley?" Murdock wondered.

"Sergeant Hanley is the 'Answer Man', man!" Baracus replied. "You got a question 'bout anything or anyone in Nam, an' ol' Hanley'll have the answer."

Face's expression turned glum again. "Only this time, his answer included another question...a question that only Colonel Smith can answer.""

A waitress stepped up to their table and started removing four bottles of beer and four glasses from her tray.

"Uhhh, pardon me, miss," the Lieutenant told her, "but we didn't order any drinks."

"A gentleman at the bar sent them over," the girl explained and continued to unload her tray.

"**What gentleman**?" all three asked, in perfect unison.

"Him!" the pretty little lady replied, as a tall, gaunt, impeccably dressed and groomed, silver-gray haired gentleman stepped up beside her.

The three men in the booth sat there, staring up at the stranger…and his impeccably groomed features.

There was just a glint of something familiar in the guy's cool, steely-blue eyes…and just a hint of something familiar in his confident, unnerving stare. If you were to add a beard and subtract a haircut…

"C-Colonel?" Murdock stammered, sounding every bit as astounded as he looked.

The look on the Captain's face caused the 'stranger' to crack a smile, which quickly graduated into a grin, and then ended in a familiar soft, easy laughter. The combined looks on the three men's flabbergasted faces kept him laughing.

"Ahh, slide over there 'sonny'," the new arrival quipped lightly, "and let a tired 'old man' have a seat." He slid his slender form into the booth beside the still amazed Murdock, and kept right on chuckling delightedly.

When the dumbstruck Captain finally found his voice again, he started out by putting his whirling thoughts into words. "If you were 18 in '53, that means you were 28 in '63, and that means—" he stopped suddenly and another look of complete and utter amazement filled his face. "You're only 36!"

The 36-year-old Colonel regained enough of his composure to speak. "Ahhh-hum," he declared with a grin. "There were times…many times…when the only thing that kept me going…was the thought of being able to see the look on your face…when you finally realized that, 'sonny'…and, I'm closer to 37, actually." With that little revelation, the gentleman relapsed into his soft, easy laughter.

"36 isn't so o-old," Murdock determined, continuing to reason aloud.

"How very kind of you to say that, Captain," the not so o-old man sincerely stated, between chuckles.

"And all that time, I thought you were 'old'…" the kid added, sounding almost apologetic.

The Colonel's familiar broad and confident grin broadened even more. "Yes. Well, everything is relative, remember, Captain? And, to someone who is only 19, 36 **is** 'relatively' _old_." The relatively old man tried, semi-successfully, to suppress his continued amusement. "Enough fun and games! Let's get right down to business." He aimed a penetrating gaze across the table at his prospective recruits. "You don't drink heavily. You don't do drugs. You don't smoke dope. You don't use the 'f' word, in fact, you can speak complete sentences—paragraphs even—without using any profanity at all. You don't like to hit people when they're down. And you don't leave someone to die just to save your own necks." The recruiter heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction and smiled approvingly. "So, you two passed my inspection. Did I pass yours?"

The two prospective recruits were as surprised by the Colonel's rather casual assessment of them, as they were by his sudden appearance in Honolulu. They weren't expecting him to join them so soon. But then, they should probably expect the unexpected, where Colonel Smith was concerned.

The Lieutenant quickly recovered from his surprise and casually pulled a little notebook from one of the front pockets of his sports jacket. He calmly flipped the thing open, drew a deep breath and got right down to brass tacks himself. "I've been running, or at least, trying to run a check on you since before we left Nam. But, if it weren't for helping Lin with his homework, I wouldn't really know anything about you. Your military records are too vague and contain too many discrepancies to be of any real help. So, all I have to show for three weeks of hard work, are these three little pages."

He turned his attention to the first one. "Why would you be recruiting new members for your Special Forces team?

Because something obviously happened to the old members.

What ever happened to the old members of your Special Forces team?

According to Captain Brochut, ASIV Saigon, Lieutenant Jarrod R. Williams, Sergeant Robert J. Meade and Lance Corporal Charles W. Yates were all sent back to the States, a little over two months ago.

Did the old members of your team leave Vietnam in a horizontal…or a vertical position?

According to Sergeant Shrives, USAP Saigon, they simply finished their extended tours of duty and were given honorable discharges and early outs from the Service.

So, what did the old members have to say about life on your Special Forces team?

Nothing! It seems the three ex green berets are not at liberty to discuss the particulars of their 'hush-hush' Special Forces missions while under the command of one Lt. Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith."

Face glanced up from his notebook. "They were all pleased, though not surprised, to hear that you had made it back. They, uh, even provided a few unsolicited character references for their ex C.O.."

He turned his attention back to the little notebook. "_Colonel Smith is one dangerously deranged dude who's definitely got his act together. He's the only officer in Nam I never felt like fragging. Well, almost never_."

The 'dangerously deranged dude' was forced to smile. "That had to be R.J.," he reasoned lightly. "What a kidder…"

Face ignored the Colonel's light-hearted—correct—comment and continued. "_I used to think Colonel Smith was a real lunatic, until I got to know him. Now, I know he's a real lunatic. But, at least he's a lovable one. Tell him I don't throw up when I look in the mirror now. Tell him 'thanks' from me for that. Oh, and someone really should tell him that there's a war going on over there, too. Before he goes out and gets himself killed. I think he thinks he's attending a Boy Scout Jamboree or something, the crazy lunatic_."

The 'crazy, lovable lunatic' managed another smile, this time, a sad one. "Good old J.R.," he affectionately announced. "He always was real deep…"

Peck again ignored the Colonel's correct comment. "And, last but certainly not least: _Colonel Smith is the greatest, craziest guy I've ever met. I couldn't sleep nights before I joined his team. Now, I don't have any problems sleeping, at all. The Colonel saved all our butts over there—more than once. And, he saved our brains—our sanity—too. We were just a bunch of burnt out LuRPs—a bunch of real losers. The Colonel salvaged us from the scrap heap of humanity and then completely restored us—inside and out. Tell him I think he's the finest officer and the craziest gentleman that ever lived. Tell him I –ah, never mind. I'll tell him myself_."

The Colonel's already sad smile became even sadder and his already blurred vision became even blurrier. "He did, too. C.W. called a couple of weeks ago, to tell me that he's decided to be a writer, instead. You see, I asked him once what he wanted to be when he grows up. He said he wanted to be a kid, because kids don't make wars and send other kids off to strange countries to kill people and be killed. I told him that I thought he had the makings of a truly great kid…and he is a truly great kid," he looked up from the empty glass he'd been staring thoughtfully into. "I told him I think he has the makings of a truly great writer, too. C.W.'s always had a real way with words…"

The Lieutenant ignored the Colonel's rather touching reaction to C.W.'s rather touching testimonial and drove home another brass tack. "If your men know you as well as you obviously know them, then one could find their repeated references to your _mental_ **instability** quite alarming—to say the least!"

Colonel Smith casually emptied the contents of one of the beer bottles into his 'looking' glass. "One could," he admitted. "But, I personally find it very reassuring." He took a sip of his icy brew. "Besides, the only reason they think I'm crazy is because they think what I'm doing is crazy, which is: waging peace. And, the only reason they think that's crazy is because of where I'm doing it. And, I guess that waging peace in the middle of a war would strike most people as being a crazy place, all right. It certainly is more challenging. But, there's nothing like waging peace in the middle of a war to lift a sagging spirit, soothe a suffering soul, purge a guilty conscience and just generally reclaim someone from the scrap heap of humanity." He paused to take another longer swallow of his cool, refreshing brew. "I mean, if waging war can put them there, then it just stands to reason that waging peace can snatch them back. Right?"

His prospective recruits just sat there, looking somewhat at a loss for words.

"Drink up, gentlemen," the peace-waging officer urged. "Your beers are getting warm."

[Author's note: Fragging is assassinating one's own commanding officer during combat so that it would look like he was killed by the enemy.

LLRPs are Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols performed by individual soldiers, deep into enemy territory. A LuRP is what someone who goes on these dangerous missions is called.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

Face ignored the Colonel's suggestion and returned to the business at hand. "I thought—at least, I was told—that a Special Forces A-detachment consists of _twelve_ men."

"Most do," Smith admitted and smiled at the Lieutenant's determination to complete his inspection. "But, it's been my experience that when you go beating the bushes with that much excess baggage the VC somehow always get wind of you and shove off.

There's a platoon of ARVINs assigned to my camp and, whenever I want to drive the unfriendlies out of the territory, I just send them out on patrol. Works slick.

However, for the more delicate, 'hush-hush' missions the four-man commando unit just can't be beat! The smaller unit moves faster and draws less attention so the VC are less apt to fade away into their tunnels on you.

There are also 200 trained Montagnard troops stationed in and around the camp. But, we've never had to call on their services…yet."

The large numbers tended to allay some of the two amigos' anxieties.

Still, Lt. Peck persisted. "What, exactly, does a typical 'hush-hush' mission entail, Colonel?"

The Colonel considered the young officer's cautious question over for a nano-second and then set his glass down with a loud 'clunk'. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but you'll have to take a rain-check on that one. You see, I'm not at liberty to discuss the nature of peace-waging missions with anyone other than the members of my team. So, what do yah say, guys? I'd really love to tell yah all about the operation…"

His prospective recruits were at first disappointed, then annoyed and then outraged by the Colonel's refusal to come clean.

"That's hardly what we'd call fair!" Peck promptly pointed out. "I mean, how can we be expected to make an intelligent decision here…when we don't have the slightest idea of what it is we'd be deciding to do?"

The Colonel thought the Lieutenant's reasonable request over for an entire moment, or two. "I guess it wouldn't be that much of a security breach to fill you in on the team's 'official military directives'. No.1: We are expected to 'interdict the frontier'—the juncture of the Cambodian border with Nam. Basically, what that entails is stopping all enemy supplies from passing through the area of the frontier. No.2: We are expected to 'secure all LZs and roadways'—keeping transportation lanes free from possible ambush and sniper fire. And, No.3: We are expected to 'deny VC supply points in our sector'—preventing the VC from establishing secret base areas where they might amass supplies and circulate freely."

The two prospective recruits stared at one another, and then at the Colonel, in complete and utter disbelief.

"That sounds like a pretty _tall_ order for only _four_ guys! Don't yah think?" Face sarcastically inquired.

"That's why I immediately took steps to shorten the order, by eliminating the need for the last two directives, which allows the team to spend all of its time and energies on waging peace and interdicting the frontier. And, really, I can't tell you anymore than that right now. But, if it's of any comfort to you, Yates, Williams, Meade and I were able to successfully carry out all three directives—while waging peace—for almost eight months, with hardly any hassles at all. So, you see, it can be done with only four guys—when those four guys are the right guys for the job…which I believe we are!" the Colonel confidently tacked on.

There was a long, thoughtful silence.

Then, B.A. glared defiantly across the table at their recruitment officer and spoke up for the first time. "Ask 'im that question that Hanley asked you," he gruffly suggested, "the one you said only **he **kin answer!"

Face gave his gruff friend an appreciative glance.

B.A. didn't say much. But, it was quality—not quantity—that really counted in conversation, anyway.

The Lieutenant flipped to page three in his notepad and prepared to drive home their final brass tack. "Ahh…yes. I asked a good friend of ours if he'd ever heard of a Colonel Smith. And, he said: You mean Lt. Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith? And I said: Yeah. And he said: Yeah. He'd heard of you. He said you commanded one of those offbeat Special Forces' A-teams in some off-the-beaten-path outpost up in the Central Highlands, up in Pleiku Province somewheres. He said you were a real lunatic, from what he's heard. He said that your unorthodox style has made you a lot of real nasty enemies in some very high places, and that we should avoid you like the plague.

And then, he wanted to know why I'd asked about you. So I told him how you had invited us to join your team. And, when he finally stopped screaming with laughter, he wanted to know _why_ we would ever want to follow some lunatic Colonel up to some festering jungle outpost, completely cut off from civilization and completely surrounded by VC guerrillas. I told him that was a real good question. And, if you can give us a real good answer to that question, Colonel…then we just might be convinced to join your team."

"How many chances do I get?" the lunatic Colonel curiously inquired.

Face was forced to smile. "Just, eh, keep firing away and we'll let you know when—and if—you hit the bulls-eye."

The recruiting officer managed a slight, confident smile himself and then lightly replied, "For starters, you wouldn't be following just any old lunatic. I'm lovable, remember? Well, at least likable. And the jungle around our outpost hasn't festered in months."

But, with the exception of Captain Murdock, his audience remained un-amused.

Smith sobered somewhat. "We are completely cut off from civilization. But that doesn't mean we don't have all the comforts of home. Our jungle digs have a five star rating. Besides all the creature comforts a-and _indoor_ facilities, Meade installed a quadraphonic stereo system with Dolby sound—and we have one of the best 8-Track tape libraries in Southeast Asia. If that's not civilized enough for you, you can jump in a jeep and be in the teeming metropolis of Pleiku, in less than fifteen minutes…"

Zippo.

"As for being completely surrounded by VC guerrillas, we are. But, as long as the truce holds up, we don't have to be overly concerned. We usually just directly observe each other through binoculars.

So you see, you stand about the same chance of getting killed in our jungle outpost as you would standing on a street corner in downtown Saigon. Some of our interdicting the frontier and rescue missions can get pretty hairy. But then, just being in country—anywhere at anytime—can be hazardous to your health…"

Zilch.

"How do I prove to you that the benefits of joining my team will outweigh the risks? I can't appeal to your sense of greed, because I don't have that much money. So, I think I'll stick with self-preservation. You two have already shown me that you're willing to risk your lives to save your lives—and ours. Since the four of us have already proven to each other that we are ready, willing and able to risk our lives to save each other, what I propose is this: that we simply stick with a winning combination. I mean, how often does a guy come across three other guys that he can trust with his life?"

Zero.

"A-and, when you're part of a team, you're never alone. Besides yourself, you've got your three trusty team members looking out for you…"

Nada.

"So…here we sit…a master scammer…a master mechanic…a master pilot…and a master planner. The perfect ingredients for putting together the perfect team..."

Nothing.

The Colonel heaved a heavy sigh of frustration, bordering on exasperation. "And, on top of all that, the A-team experience is a guaranteed thrill of a lifetime! United we stand, divided we fall, all for one and one for all! Go, A-team! Go..."

Still nothing.

"Plea-ease?" the recruiter pleaded rather pitifully. Hey, begging wasn't beneath him.

The master scammer/master mechanic team stared thoughtfully across the table at the master planner/master pilot team. The two prospective recruits then turned to stare at each other.

"What do you say, B.A.?" Face solemnly inquired. "Should we have a team _merger_, here?"

"I'll leave it up ta you, man," the Sergeant said, sounding totally indifferent. "Whatever you decide is all right by me."

The Lieutenant turned back to the lovable—er, likable lunatic and extended his hand and a winning smile. "Colonel Smith, you've got yourself a team."

His new C.O. gave him a confident grin and a firm, confident handshake.

Face found his smile broadening into a grin as well. "Or, should I say, an A-team."

"Not just 'an' A-team, Lieutenant," the Colonel corrected, "**The** A-Team!" He released his vice-like grip on Peck's palm and extended the hand of friendship to the 'most unfriendly fellow to first meet'. "Glad to have you on the team, Sergeant," he sincerely said.

But Baracus was obviously not glad to be on it. He gave his new C.O. a sneer of disapproval and refused to shake the hand that had been offered him.

The Colonel looked rather at a loss and reluctantly drew his hand back.

"It's nothing personal, Colonel," Peck assured him. "He just hates all officers above the rank of Lieutenant."

The hated officer riveted his unnerving stare upon the man with the generally bad attitude. "And you hate officers' orders, right? Well, I think this officer just might be able to change that. Sergeant Baracus, I _order_ you to hit me!"

The unusual officer's unusual request caused the seemingly unflappable Sergeant to become slightly 'flapped'.

"I don't like to repeat myself, Sergeant!" the Colonel continued, sounding more than a tad bit gruff and grizzly himself. "I gave you a direct order and I expect you to carry it out—DIRECTLY!" Smith slipped out of the booth, to provide the Sergeant with a standing target.

Face saw his friend was becoming more 'flapped' by the moment. "Uhh, Colonel, unless you _want_ to end up back in the hospital, I respectfully suggest that you call off your order…sir."

"Yeah, Colonel," Murdock whole-heartedly agreed. "You're finally able to stand—for the first time in three months—and you _want_ him to knock you off your feet?"

"Relax, Captain," the Colonel calmly advised and kept his intense, penetrating gaze locked onto the still-seated Sergeant. "He's just a non-COM poop with a powder-puff punch!"

His intentional taunt produced instantaneous results.

Displaying amazing speed and agility for a man of his size, the non-COM sprang to his feet and connected his huge right fist squarely to the COM's big-mouthed jaw.

Colonel Smith went reeling back from the force of the impact, lost his balance and fell flat on his back on the floor…the hard floor. He was momentarily too dazed to move. But then, he picked his groggy head up and shook it.

The Captain and the Lieutenant dropped to their knees beside him and tried to keep him in a prone position.

"Take it easy, Colonel," Murdock anxiously advised. "You try to gain altitude too fast and your engine's gonna stall on you."

"I'm okay, Murdock," Smith assured his master pilot with a sore smile and propped himself up on his elbows to gaze dazedly up at the Sergeant. "Well? How did it feel to hit a Colonel?" he wondered with a wince and a grin.

The big, gruff guy was forced to smile. "It felt good. It felt real goo-ood."

"I thought that might make you feel better," the Colonel confessed and rubbed his bruised jaw. "So…do you got it all out of your system, now?"

B.A. looked thoughtful and then nodded.

"And your not harboring anymore animosity toward me?" the officer hopefully inquired. "Because, if you are, you might as well hit me right now and get it over with…"

Baracus smiled again and shook his head. Then he extended a hand and pulled the Colonel back up onto his feet.

"Thanks, Sergeant," Smith told him and kept the big man's huge hand locked in his vice-like grip. "And, thanks for pulling your punch."

B.A. looked surprised and then blasé. "What makes you think I did?"

"I don't think you did. I know you did," the Colonel confidently corrected. "I knew you were going to pull it even before you threw it. Besides, I'm still alive, aren't I? I may have to chew on the right side of my mouth for a week or two. But, at least I can still move my jaw." He slid his sore jaw from side to side and winced again.

"So…how'd you know I was gonna pull it?" Baracus cautiously inquired.

"I heard you say once that you don't hit anybody when they're down." The Colonel flashed the Sergeant his broad, confident grin. "You don't really think I'd have told you to go ahead and hit me, if I thought for a moment you were _really_ going to **hit** me…do you?"

B.A.'s smile made an unprecedented third appearance. "You seem awful sure a' yerself, sucker!"

"Not as sure of myself as I am of the men I pick to be on my team. And, I am glad to have you on my team, Sergeant." He released his hold on the big guy's hand and drew his shoulders confidently back. "Now, let's cut all the mutual admiration crap and get to work, gentlemen!"

And, to work they went.

And, what hard work it proved to be!

* * *

[AN: ARVINs are regulars in the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. In other words, South Vietnamese soldiers.

A non-com is a non-commissioned officer. A com is a commissioned officer.

Additional note: A platoon equals roughly 30 men.

Additional additional note: Montagnards are separate tribes of Vietnamese with separate customs, who inhabit the mountainous Central Highlands of South Vietnam. Their Malayo-Polynesian ancestry produces a distinct difference in physical features, i.e., their eyes are rounder, their builds are larger, their skin darker, giving them a less Asiatic appearance than lowland Vietnamese, who are basically a provincial Chinese people.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

**The** A-team spent another month in Hawaii.

No longer resting and recreating in some cushy hotel, its members found themselves bivouacked in makeshift shelters in the great outdoors.

During that thirty day period, Colonel Smith conducted a training camp so rigorous it made boot camp seem like a Sunday Social!

Besides obstacle courses, there were courses in munitions, marksmanship, and military maneuvers. Also included in the curriculum were crash courses in hand-to-hand combat and the Vietnamese language.

The Colonel's little peace-waging operation was explained in great detail. Rebuilding the bombed and burnt out villages in their sector seemed to be the team's main non-military objective. Secondary to that was providing temporary housing for displaced civilian populations, while their villages were being rebuilt, and maintaining a mobile hospital, where sick and injured non-combatants could be cared for. Several schools were also in the works.

It quickly became apparent why the unit's peace-waging missions had to be kept so 'hush-hush'. Getting all the building, medical and food supplies, necessary for the operation, involved some pretty _creative_ procurement methods…to say the least.

Finally, the team's little training camp was completed, and it was time for them to head for their home base, back in Vietnam's Central Highlands.

Lieutenant Peck suspected his 'master scammer' skills would soon be put to good use—literally!

Sergeant Baracus was so gung ho to get back to Nam, and commence the team's peace-waging operation, he barely complained about having to board another plane.


End file.
